


Decode

by SilverLining2k6



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, flangst, season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 46,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5384141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interactive two-shot.  Early S2.  Plays nice with canon up through Ahoy Mateys, so expect canon V/D and lots of self-denial at first.   Definitely an L/V fic, though.  Gift fic for my beloved, lilamadison11.  Somewhere near the middle of the fluff to angst scale.  Can I call it flangst?  </p><p>Logan presses the box into my palm and curls my fingers around it.  I run my thumb over the nap of the velvet. "What's this?"</p><p>"Birthday present. I had it custom-made, so it can't be returned." He shrugs. Ducks his head again. "Toss it if you want. Or keep it. Whatever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How did we get here?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilamadison11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilamadison11/gifts).



> As you can guess from the title, parts of this fic are encrypted. They can be decrypted by opening http://www.rot13.com/ in a separate tab, and pasting in the sentences. 
> 
> I did it this way to make it interactive and fun, a callback to the lead up to the Veronica Mars Movie when we used Rot13 to conceal our spoilerish discussions on Tumblr. 
> 
> I realize this isn't for everyone, so if you'd like to read without having to decode the text messages, I'm posting the plain version on fanfiction.net.

[](http://imgur.com/a2teQMQ)

# 1.

_Adulthood is anticlimactic._

I didn’t really expect to wake up fundamentally changed or anything, but still, the _sameness_ disappoints.

The aerosol can hisses as I mist a light coat of hairspray onto my growing-out bangs to prevent them from slipping right out of the barrette. The curse of having baby-fine hair.

“I’m heading out.” Dad appears in the bathroom doorway, scrunching his nose and waving the fumes away with his hand. “Should be back early tomorrow.” He wears his surveillance outfit - nondescript in every way - and clutches his leather bail-jumpers kit containing everything necessary to capture and restrain criminals.

“Good luck. That McDaniels is a slippery bugger.”

“But he’s no match for Keith Mars. You have a good time tonight, and don’t forget, Sunday is all mine. Daddy/Daughter Birthday Extravaganza.”

I pause in my eyeshadow application and smile. “I can’t wait.”

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.” Dad steps forward, kisses my forehead, and leaves, his footsteps growing progressively distant until the apartment door opens and closes.

Coming down with a sudden case of the jitters, I inhale deeply and release the breath to a count of five.

_Dad will be fine._

His burns have healed, leaving very little scarring, but I have to keep reminding myself that it wasn't the P.I. work that landed him in the emergency room last Spring. It was Aaron Echolls.

Still, every time he leaves for a case, my head fills with images of him in that hospital bed. He almost died for me.  The least I can do is live safely for him.

I blend my shadow and, for a change of pace, curl my lashes before applying my usual two coats of mascara.

 _Looking good, Veronica._ Just a swipe of lipstick and a change of dress, and I’ll be ready to go.

A knock sounds from the living room and I roll my eyes.

"Did you forget your car keys again?" I call out as I approach and turn the doorknob. "I swear, I'm going to sew a second set into…” The words die on my lips.

It's not my absent minded father waiting on the Welcome mat. It's my (not-so-welcome) ex-boyfriend.

Not the sweet ex-boyfriend/possibly new boyfriend, who's due to arrive in twenty minutes to take me out for my birthday dinner.

Nope, it's the most recent ex-boyfriend; burner of pools and smasher of lamps.

Backlit by the golden glow of evening, his brown hair reflects metallic bronze. His head is ducked, and despite his extra foot in height, he somehow manages to look as if he's glancing up at me from under his thick straight lashes.

My insides react _frenetically_ \- racing heart, burning cheeks, a whoosh in my stomach that defies the existence of gravity. Luckily, I've had two years to perfect my poker face.

I cross my arms over my chest, tilt my head to the left. "How long did you wait for my dad to pull away?"

Insolent shrug. "Fifteen minutes or so. I've waited longer."

I take in his appearance, searching for something - anything - to indicate that he feels my absence from his life.

 _Nothing_. His face is shaved and his hair is artfully gelled. No missed buttons on his striped shirt, no tell-tale odor of the unshowered.

He smells good, actually - sand and surf and mint. He looks great.

_And here I was worried he'd fall apart after losing me._

What does it say about me that this comes as more of disappointment than a relief? As if bloodshot eyes and a disheveled appearance would have validated the idea that he'd ever truly cared about me. _Needed_ me _._

Who was I kidding? He's doing fine.

He smirks and lifts an eyebrow. "Should I turn in a circle or something while you complete your inspection? Profile view, perhaps?"

I narrow my eyes. "Why are you here, Logan?"

He sighs and produces a blue velvet box from behind his back.

My left hand grips the wooden door frame while my mind chants a litany of denials. _He wouldn't. Would he? Would I? Of course I wouldn't. We're not even eighteen yet. Okay, I'm eighteen, but only for the past twelve hours. We're not even together. Does he want to be? Do I want to be?_

_Get a hold of yourself, Veronica. There are other types of rings._

Logan presses the box into my palm and curls my fingers around it.

I run my thumb over the nap of the velvet. "What's this?"

"Birthday present. I had it custom-made, so it can't be returned." He shrugs. Ducks his head again. "Toss it if you want. Or keep it. Whatever." His indifferent tone contradicts the apprehension in his eyes.

He doesn't wait for me to open the box, simply turns and walks away. "Goodbye, Veronica," he calls over his shoulder.

The finality of the words crush something inside me I'd prefer not to examine.

Why should I care? I'm over him. I have been, ever since my dad tossed him from the apartment.

I simply. cannot. allow. myself to care about somebody who would purposely set out to hurt others - especially the poor and disadvantaged.

I'm no stranger to revenge, and Logan has a strong case for it. But targeting innocents crosses the line. His propensity for cruelty sickens me, as does his skill in inflicting it.

Then again, he was trained by the master.

For the hundredth time, I wonder if Aaron Echolls punished Lynn via Logan's skin. Kept her docile and controlled by threats to the only person she truly loved? What kind of message might that have taught his son?

For the ninety-ninth time, I push that rationalization away. He can’t use his past as an excuse anymore. He's not fifteen and reeling from the death of his girlfriend. He's almost an adult. He's emancipated for fuck's sake.

If I was smart, I would call in and report him. Provide evidence that he's breaking the terms of his emancipation on a daily basis.  Trina's already made it clear that she wants no part of guardianship. They would have to ship him off to Ohio to live with his drunk great-aunt, Marcia. Or maybe he would end up in foster care. Either way, he would hate me for it.

I couldn't care less. I've dealt with and survived Logan's hate before.

What I can’t deal with, is the sick feeling that he won't make it to his next birthday. That the next shotgun blast will be through his stupid, pretty face.

Waves of nausea sweep over me. I close my eyes and clench my jaw until they pass.

_I'm too young for this shit._

Boyfriend drama at my age should be about whether he checked out the cheerleader's ass (never) or whether he called when he said he would (always). Boyfriend drama should NOT be life or death.

Unsure why I'm still standing here when he's long gone, I close the door and return to my bedroom.

My resolve wars with curiosity. I want to open the box immediately. And I want to toss it out, unopened.

Pandora's Ring Box. Opening it will surely lead to another round of 'what if'.

_What if he'd listened to reason? What if he'd cared enough about me to stop his ridiculous war? Where would we be right now?_

I'm positive he had something special planned for my birthday. That trip to Catalina we've been talking about for months, probably.

And we would be happy. We would hold hands and he would skip every now and then, as if his joy outweighed any societal pressure to be stoic and manly. I would roll my eyes at his dramatics and fall a little deeper. There would be wining and dining. Maybe a little dancing. He would wait to present his gift until we were alone, though.

It's not the first time I've imagined this scene, and my traitorous mind eagerly backfills the setting details.

His father's yacht. Open sea. Champagne and strawberries. Moonlight and music. He would probably make another declaration of love. I would probably deflect it, while my heart sang.

He'd give me his gift. I'd give him my body.

Not that I hadn't tried already. Multiple times this summer during heated makeouts, he'd gently diverted my hands away from his zipper.

I’d never felt rejected. Sexually frustrated? Definitely. But his desire for me could not be more obvious. I'd never hidden mine for him either. A well-placed thigh between my legs could turn me into a shameless lust-beast.

It wasn’t hard to guess his motives. He still carried guilt over his unintentional contribution to the…mistake…that cost me my virginity, and he wanted my first _real_ time to be perfect. He wanted to provide all the romantic trappings - the hearts and flowers - I was denied the first time.

It was unnecessary. I would have taken him in his bed, on his couch, that day in his pool. _Especially_ that day in the pool, pressed between his hard body and the slick tiles.

But it was important to him to give me that experience, and I cared enough to humor him..

Not without some push back, of course. Like that night on the beach when I'd wrapped my hand around the bulge in his pants. He'd moaned and - after a surge of his hips - relocated my hand to his chest with a soft kiss to the knuckles.

 _Soon?_ I'd asked, pulling back enough to see his face.

 _Soon,_ he'd confirmed in a whisper, eyes luminous with emotion and need.

I'd known then that he had a plan. With my birthday less than a month away, it seemed the obvious choice. I could wait that long.

And I have. Waited. But there won't be any romantic excursions tonight.

I won't be feeling the slide of his skin against mine. And I‘ll never know the experience of having him inside me.

Because Logan Echolls is a heartless jackass, and I have dinner plans with someone else.

My attention shifts to the paper fortune tucked into one corner of my mirror, and shame burns my cheeks.

What am I doing thinking about Logan when Duncan will be here any minute?

_No regrets, Veronica. Everything turned out for the best. As it was meant to be._

I leave the velvet box on my dresser. Unopened.

[](http://imgur.com/2ICEPyx)

**-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-**

# 2.

Duncan holds my hand as we walk along the boardwalk. He seems happy, but not joyous. He doesn't skip, and I hate myself for noticing.

_Of course he doesn't. Ninety-nine percent of the over-seven population doesn't skip._

This is nice. The company is charming, and we have time to linger, as our reservations aren't for another half hour. The afternoon’s heat has tapered off and my turquoise sun dress flutters against my legs in the gentle breeze.

I am content.

A display of iridescent baubles bounces rainbows onto the boardwalk, and we stop to browse at a hand-blown glass booth.

A transparent orb, the size of a softball, sits nestled in a swath of magenta satin. I crouch down, intrigued by how it turns its setting upside down - sky at the bottom, pink at the top.

The proprietress - a brown-eyed, honey-blonde who looks like she’d be right at home at the Mooncalf Collective - places the glass ball in my hand. “Take it over to the railing,” she says, pointing to the opposite side of the boardwalk.

At my hesitation, she says, “You have a trustworthy face. And your friend is still here, anyway. It’s worth it.”

“Thank you.”

Looking through the ball from my new vantage point, the blue/orange/lavender sunset is crowned by a sand and scrub sky. A boulder sky. A boardwalk sky.

I select targets from my surroundings - a clump of seashells left behind by a child, a gull on a stump, a paisley bandana stall. The glass ball flips everything top to bottom, creating a stunning effect.

I want to come back and photograph the world this way.

[](http://imgur.com/UajUrzI)

Finally, because I’m being cowardly, I lift the orb to the ocean, and the vision - formerly static and serene - comes to life.

The sun, a - golden orb within an orb - radiates from the center, sandwiched between reflective choppy waves and the streaky pink-lemonade sky. The effect pulls the air from my lungs.

I think of Logan.

Emotional as a tropical storm, tempestuous and destructive, roaring and rebellious, with a nasty tendency to bash himself against immovable objects.

Logan, vast and immeasurable. Concealing great depths and beauty beneath the surface. Alluring and playful and gentle. A warm caress to the skin. A healing balm for a tired soul.

All of the above. At once.

Dating him was like piloting a small boat.

_What will it be today? An exhilarating zip across the waves, bouncing off the wake and screaming with laughter? Or will it be like floating on a tranquil sea, buoyed and cradled in his love?_

Eventually, though, you’ll find yourself amidst raging seas and crashing waves. It isn’t a matter of _if_ you’ll capsize, so much as _when._ And the question you should be asking, is whether you’ll wash to shore a little worse-for-wear, or be swallowed up whole.

I made it out alive, but it still requires vigilance to maintain my resolve.

My cell buzzes inside my bag.

_It’s him. I know it. His underwater familiars contacted him via the conch-shell network._

I’m being ridiculous. It’s probably just my dad checking in with an update on Hiram McDaniels.

The text is from Logan. I drop it back into my bag, unread.

_Nope. Not ruining this night._

I return to the glass maker’s stand.

If Logan is the sea, then Duncan is the earth. Solid and stable. Dependable. Drama-free. A great foundation upon which to build a relationship.

He’s talking to the lady, clutching a boot-shaped beer stein that even the proprietress seems to have a hard time taking seriously.

_Ewww. Tacky. Put it down._

She smiles at my return. “So? What did you think?”

“Magical.”

The fifty-dollar price tag is steep for something that will probably end up sitting on a shelf, and I’m regretting not accepting dad’s offer of birthday spending money, when I open my wallet to find a suspicious hundred-dollar bill.

_Sneaky, Dad. Very sneaky._

“I’ve got it,” Duncan says, whipping out his wallet.

“No thanks, I can pay.”

“Nonsense.” He kisses my cheek. “It’s your birthday. Let me buy this for you.”

I’m adamant in my refusal. I can’t allow Duncan to pay for something that made me think of Logan. To be honest, I shouldn’t be thinking of him at all, but it’s going to take time.

Instead, as I pay for my purchase, I steer Duncan towards a more elegant set of steins.

I still can't believe we're back together. For a year after Lilly's death, I'd wanted this more than anything. Hoped for it. Dreamed of it. To be reunited with my handsome, sweet boyfriend. To take my place back at his side, where nobody would dare ridicule me. To go back to normal.

I essentially shut down those feelings when he started dating Meg. If he was no longer an option for me, I could at least be happy for my friend. And anyway, I’d been distracted by Logan, who’d seemed on the verge of an emotional spiral when he showed up at the dance pantsless. Whether it was my influence or Logan’s inner strength, we somehow managed to avoid that crises. And then it was on to the next disaster. For the past five months, I’ve managed to back-burner any tender emotions towards Duncan.

Until I opened his fortune cookie this afternoon. Until I kissed him.

Packages wrapped and bagged, we continue down the boardwalk, occasionally stopping to admire jewelry or novelties at the various booths.

It’s four minutes until our reservation. Dominic’s is straight ahead, and I can already detect the mingling aromas of roasting garlic, fresh bread, and marinara. My mouth begins to water.

“Yo, Duncan!” The voice comes behind us, and I groan audibly.

We turn, and I clutch Duncan's hand as Chester approaches.

I barely know the guy, but he's an 09er. Dim-witted and messy-haired with a middle-aged Hawaiian tourist esthetic. A regular at Logan’s poker games.

"Dude, when'd ya get back in town?" he asks.

"I've been here all summer."

"What? Where've you been? You've missed everything."

"Uh…just laying low," Duncan answers, embarrassed. "Family drama."

"Oh. Well there's a party tonight at Dick's place. Total blow out! You should come. Bring your girl." The guy makes a vague gesture towards me.

"Wish I could, but we have plans." Duncan says.

"Break them. You can't miss this one." He glances over his shoulder and bellows, "DICK!"

“WHAT?” Dick Casablancas' voice responds from inside the open door of the surf shop, and my stomach drops.

_Just my freaking luck._

"Get out here, and convince this idiot to come to your party."

Dick swaggers out of the shop, followed by his brother, Cassidy. His eyes sweep over me and Duncan, lingering on our clasped hands, and his lip curls up into a disgusted sneer.

"Not cool man," he says, with a slow head shake. "Not cool at all."

"Why not?" Duncan straightens his shoulders and his chin juts out at an obstinate angle. "I'm single. She's single."

"Logan needs you, dude."

I tug my hand free and grasp his bicep. "Let's go, Duncan."

He ignores me, and lets out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. He really _looked_ like he needed me."

"He did, you ass." Dick punches him lightly in the bicep. "You're supposed to be his best friend, right?"

"I used to think so."

The unspoken implication is that Logan committed treason by dating me.

"You should have been there man. Dude couldn’t take a piss without a reporter being up in his face.” He holds up an imaginary microphone. “ _’Is it true your dad’s a psycho murderer? Are you a psycho murderer? Are you a family of psycho murderers? Has Trina ever murdered anyone? Did your dad push your mom of that bridge?’_ And the whole town was screaming for his arrest and spitting on him. Shooting at him and his _girlfriend_."

Duncan seems unaffected. "Did it slip your mind who his dad murdered?"

"Did it slip _your_ mind that Logan had nothing to do with that? Or were you too busy creeping on his girl?”

An intense feeling of disloyalty sits in my belly, although I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m not sticking up for Logan or because I want to.

“Dick.” Cassidy grips his brother's shoulder and whispers something in his ear.

“Good point,” Dick says. He turns his attention to me and switches on the faux-charm. “Ronnie, I guess I should thank you for returning Logan’s testicles only _slightly_ mangled. Congrats on getting back together, and I hope you two crazy kids can make it last for a long, long time this go-around.”

“Thanks, man.” Duncan smiles, apparently placated, and I wonder if he completely missed the insult. Or just didn’t care.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 3.

Dominic’s is a special-occasion destination.

Soft light spills out of frosted-glass sconces on spice-colored columns - cumin, paprika, cinnamon - while lamp candles on crisp white tablecloths, complete the romantic mood.

Wealthy clientele murmur politely around spacious round tables.

It’s not a place I would bring my father, with his animated stories and boisterous laugh. Not a place I would choose for myself either, to be honest. Too likely to run into Celeste Kane and her ilk. Logan had suggested checking it out once back in July, but hadn’t pressed when I’d suggested Mama Leone’s instead.

My meat lasagna drips with cheese and tastes like happiness - even with its ridiculous price-to-portion ratio. I dip a chunk of warm garlic bread into the sauce and let out a contented sigh upon tasting it.

Duncan is effusive and engaging. We fill each other in on what we’ve missed over the past year, and our plans for the upcoming year. He clearly wants to pick up where we left off, and I think I’m okay with that. We had something good before life went to hell and it would be great if we could get that back.

Still, the unread text message in my bag scratches at my attention, so when Duncan excuses himself to use the restroom, I decide it can’t hurt to read it.

I pull my cell from my bag and stare in incomprehension at the gibberish displayed on my screen. A random string of letters and spaces. Not a single legitimate word.

Considering that the text came in at least twenty minutes _before_ our run-in with Dick, it can’t be a response to hearing about me and Duncan.

I hit the reply button.

**Veronica Mars 8:04 PM**  
Did a cat walk over your cell phone, or did you start drinking early?

Logan’s response comes moments later as Duncan makes his way back to our table.

**Logan Echolls 8:21 PM**  
If you have to ask, that answers my question. Enjoy your reunion with your stalker and have a nice life.

It stings.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 4.

I dream of tender hands exploring my body. The gentle rhythm of waves under a canopy of stars. The solid weight of his naked body and the taste of his mouth. Logan stares down at me, and I have never felt so loved.

I wake, gasping and sweaty. One forty-seven A.M.

I’m out of bed with the light on before I can second-guess myself.

I blink several times - adjusting to the harsh glare - and then locate my target . The blue ring box sits on my dresser between the mirror and the glass rose I won playing Skee-ball with Lilly in sixth grade. It opens with a slight _squeak_ of its hinges.

I stare for several moments at the silver ring inside, and then pluck it from its velvet perch.

It’s tall - the kind of ring that would come almost to my knuckle and I’m fascinated by its design - a feminine scroll overlay pattern sandwiched between thin, masculine hexagonal borders.

It slides onto my right ring finger as if it were made for me. Which…I suppose it was.

I laugh aloud when my thumb rubs the pattern and it shifts. _A spinner ring!_

In June, we’d stopped at a silver shop to repair an antique serving piece Logan had dented while roughhousing at Luke’s house. During the short wait, I’d fiddled with the spinner rings while Logan smiled indulgently. I remember seeing him deep in conversation with the owner, but had assumed it was about the tray.

_That sneaky boy._

Removing the ring, I take it to my bedside lamp to examine it more closely.

It’s as if Logan captured my essence in silver - tough and dangerous on the outside, girly and romantic in the middle.

On my third spin, I discover what at first looks like a flaw in the design. A place where the scrollwork is cornered and square instead of rounded and curvy.

Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s actually a small window, revealing the letter ‘H’ embossed upon the concealed inner band.

Above the window, the latticing cleverly forms a small arrow shape. I tilt the ring and find the entire alphabet engraved along the top edge. The arrow points to the letter “U”.

_Huh?_

I slide the center section to the right - so that the arrow points to “V”. The letter “I” now displays inside the small window.

I spin the arrow to the letter “L”. The window shows me a “Y”.

Any part of me that was still holding-out melts into a gooey puddle.

_Logan commissioned a secret decoder ring for me._

Unlike the ones that used to come in cereal boxes, the clever design ensures that anybody examining it on my finger would see only a large, slightly edgy piece of jewelry.

This thrills me and my heart swells. Nobody gets me like my smart and seriously hot boyfriend.

_Except he’s not my boyfriend. Hasn’t been for weeks. Duncan is now._

I grab the ring box, examining it for any hidden notes, but the lining is firmly attached. No secret compartment.

Damn. I have a new toy and I’m ready to play with it.

_The text message! From when I was looking out at the waves._

I rush to my phone and pull up Logan’s message from earlier.

**Logan Echolls 8:12 PM**  
Unccl Oveguqnl Irebavpn. V zvff lbh. Whfg xabj gung vs vg jrer cbffvoyr gb tb onpx, V jbhyq punatr rirelguvat. V ungr gung zl fghcvq arrq sbe eriratr pnhfrq zr gb ybfr jung znggrerq zbfg va gur jbeyq gb zr. V nz fvapreryl fbeel.

My sinuses prickle and my vision swims as I use the ring to slowly decode his message.

_He does still care._

I sigh his name, blot my eyes with a tissue, and compose my response. I assume he commissioned a ring for himself as well to code and decode with.

**Veronica Mars 2:11 AM**  
Gunax lbh sbe gur tvsg. Vg'f ybiryl naq V'z birejuryzrq ol ubj vg rzobqvrf jub V nz. Lbhe zrffntr zrnaf n ybg gb zr, naq V jvfu V’q pbzzhavpngrq orggre orsber guvatf jrag gbb sne. V zvff lbh gbb, Ybtna.

_It can’t be too late for us._

Duncan and I have barely left the starting gate. He’d understand if I changed my mind.

Logan's acknowledged his wrongdoing. We can talk it out. If he’ll promise to drop the vendetta, there’s no reason why we can’t be together.

He loves me.

I love him.

The admission is like a heavy weight lifted from my chest, and I can’t even wait until morning.

He’ll forgive me for waking him up - especially once I’ve told him I’m willing to work things out. We’ll discuss it like adults and then maybe, if things are going well, I’ll convince him to come over and crawl in my bed. Dad’s not here, and it would be wonderful to finally get a good night’s sleep snuggled up against his warmth.

I dial his number and my heart flutters in anticipation of hearing his sleep-tinged voice.

“Hello?”

Except…the voice is feminine. And older. Mid-twenties, at least.

I pause, checking the display. Definitely the right phone number. “Um…is Logan around?”

“He’s in the shower,” the woman says.

“Why would he shower at two in the morning?”

“If I have to answer that, then your Sex Ed class is wasting my tax dollars. You wanna leave a message?

“No.” I disconnect the call, white-hot anger boiling through my veins.

_BASTARD!_

I rip the ring from my finger and hurl it across the room.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 5.

I wake to the buzz of an incoming text message. Logan, of course.

_You don’t have to decode this, Veronica. Just delete it. You’ll be better off._

I locate the ring behind a marshmallow-scented jar candle on the second shelf of my bookcase. It’s undamaged, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

**Logan Echolls 09:12 AM**  
Lbh'er jrypbzr. V'z eryvrirq gung lbh yvxr vg. Pna jr gnyx? Lbh pbhyq pnyy zr be znlor jr pbhyq trg pbssrr?

It’s too earnest. He doesn’t know I called

**Veronica Mars 9:15 AM**  
Ab, jr pna'g. Gnyx gb lbhe shpx ohqql. Gur bar jub nafjrerq lbhe cubar ynfg avtug juvyr lbh jrer va gur fubjre.

_Damn. Could you sound more jealous, Veronica?_

Why didn’t I just go with a simple _“it’s not a good idea”_?

Logan responds swiftly.

**Logan Echolls 9:16 AM**  
Sbetrg V rira nfxrq. V zhfg unir zvfvagrecergrq lbhe grkg, orpnhfr pyrneyl vg’f ubcryrff orgjrra hf.

He follows up before I can respond.

**Logan Echolls 9:16 AM**  
Xabjvat ubj ryngrq lbh zhfg or gb unir Qhapna onpx, V’z synggrerq lbh rira gbbx gvzr bhg sebz pryroengvat gb pnyy zr. Sbetvir zr sbe abg jnvgvat ol gur cubar.

_What did I expect, groveling?_

How had I _not_ predicted he’d react this way to hearing about me and Duncan? It’s classic Logan. He did this every time Lilly broke his heart. Why did I think things would be any different?

**Veronica Mars 9:18 AM**  
Lbh’er evtug, vg vf ubcryrff. Abguvat’f punatrq, naq V fgvyy pna'g qrny jvgu gur rzbgvbany ebyyre pbnfgre. Abezny vf FGVYY gur jngpujbeq.

**Logan Echolls 9:19 AM**  
V haqrefgnaq.

My chest tightens.

Nobody’s ever said the boy isn’t a quick learner. I’ve trained him well to respect my decisions.

He doesn’t beg for more chances. Doesn’t promise to do better.

He just gives up on me.

Things might be finito for us, but I hate the idea of hiding the ring away at the bottom of some drawer. It speaks to me - size, weight, and aesthetic - and the sentiment behind it was heartfelt and personal.

I slide it back onto my finger.

I love him. God help me, I do. But being with him simply isn’t worth the pain and heartache that come with the job.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 6.

Duncan and I have been back together for a week now, and it’s liberating being part of a stable relationship.

It’s as if we’d never broken up. He doesn’t see _“damaged goods with trust issues”_ , he sees the pretty pink princess I used to be.

_That I can be again. Nothing is stopping me now._

Duncan is tentative touches and soft kisses. Gentle and soothing.

He shrinks back from my sarcasm, and that’s okay. I need to relearn politeness. The anger isn’t necessary anymore.

Duncan offers safety and calm.

No secrecy. No fear. No heart-pounding worry every time the phone rings.

He’s taken the penthouse suite at the Neptune Grand - oversized and modern and obscenely expensive. I can’t help thinking that two months in this room would pay for a year of tuition and living expenses at Stanford.

We’re cuddled up on his white, butter-soft, leather sectional watching his favorite movie, Forrest Gump. _Again_.

“What’s this?” He lifts my hand to get a look at my ring, and my thumb automatically presses the back, preventing it from spinning and ensuring that the window is concealed. “Looks like something a dude would wear.”

I snatch my hand away, crossing my arms.

He laughs. “I’ll buy you a ring. Something pretty. With an opal, maybe. Or a pearl.”

_Something virginal, you mean. Something Meg Manning would wear._

There’s no need to mention that Logan gave me the ring. What good could come from that?

“No thank you,” I say instead. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m happy with this ring. It’s special to me.”

Duncan shrugs, already absorbed with the movie again.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 7.

Unlike last year, I don’t approach the first day of school with dread.

My boyfriend is popular. No one mocks me in the halls. My locker is graffiti-free. And when I run into Madison Sinclair in the bathroom, she swallow back her poison. Playing nice looks painful on her.

My Stanford dreams are alive, and I kick-off the year with a two-part plan: get accepted, and find a way to pay for it.

The Kane Scholarship is still my greatest hope, and the irony is a kick-in-the-teeth. If Jake and Celeste hadn’t destroyed my father’s livelihood, broken up my family, and run off my mother, my college savings might still be collecting interest in the bank.

Then there’s my job at Java the Hut. It might not pay much, but it’s Normal. Nice and safe and Normal.

One thing that is NOT on the plan: Investigating.

It’s the antithesis of Normal, and I’ve retired. Permanently.

Nothing can drag me back in. _Nothing._

Except for Wallace.

_They had to go and mess with Wallace._

Nobody messes with my BFF and gets away with it.

There’s no way he failed that drug test. So…one more for the books. One and done. I can probably have this wrapped up before Duncan even gets back from visiting his dad in Napa.

Logan’s M.I.A. so far. I exhibit remarkable self-control by not grabbing Weevil by the ear and demanding an explanation. Through strategic bathroom eavesdropping, I learn he’s doing just fine as of Pam’s party last night.

Like Duncan, he’s simply decided to skip the first few days of school. A year ago, they would have been together. Now, they don’t even speak to each other.

That’s what happens when your best friend dates your ex, I suppose.

Speaking of friends and exes, the situation with Meg is…uncomfortable.

Duncan broke up with her months ago, while I was still dating Logan. Shouldn’t she be over it by now?

_Like you were completely over it two months after he dumped you, Veronica?_

It’s not quite the same thing. He was my first love. You never completely get over your first.

 _Maybe he was Meg’s first. too._ She’d gotten over Cole quickly enough.

Regardless, she seems to think I stole Duncan from her, when nothing could be further from the truth.

She’s attending the field trip to Shark Field later in the week. Maybe we’ll get a chance to talk and I can make her understand.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 8.

Weevil doesn’t offer me a ride home from the crash site, and I don’t ask. He takes off early, his motorcycle able to weave in and out of stopped traffic in a way that anything larger could not.

I wait in the limo with my classmates for twenty minutes, but after one too many callous complaints, I climb out, ignoring Duncan’s entreaties to come back.

I feel a heavy numbness in my torso and my thoughts are still dazed.

_Meg is down there, dead or dying._

_So is Ms. Dumas, the bus driver, and five other students who are loved and will be mourned. And those assholes want to whine about inconvenience?_

My phone still doesn’t have a signal. I shove it back in my bag and set off in search of transportation.

The scene is pure chaos. Dust and smoke, flashing lights and helicopter blades. Sheriff’s Deputies stand around aimlessly while Highway Patrol tries to restore order by cordoning off the scene, laying out cones to form a single lane, and sending out flaggers. Firemen and EMTs wait for instructions next to their vehicles. A few reporters huddle with their cameramen waiting for the noise to abate.

Every face displays a similar expression: shell shock.

Kamachi Kenkichi, my dad’s friend on Highway Patrol, is screaming at Lamb to have his deputies “MOVE EVERY FUCKING VEHICLE OFF THAT PULL-OFF” so that the hovering Search and Rescue chopper can land.

He has a point. Five cruisers are parked haphazardly in the lot for the overlook while a string of fire engines, ambulances and state boys are forced to park on the grassy slope across the road.

I spy Sacks holding a cell to his ear and writing in a notebook. He beckons me over, and hands me the phone.

“Hello?”

My dad’s relieved voice. “Oh thank God. I was terrified.”

I reassure him repeatedly that I am alive, fine, and don’t have a single scratch, and then return the phone to Sacks. He’s heading back to Neptune to relieve an off-duty deputy and I’m welcome to hitch a ride in the back of his cruiser.

Sure, the vehicle reeks of sweat and vomit, and the A/C doesn’t quite cool off the back, but at least I’m not still back at the scene like those poor, inconvenienced - note the sarcasm - kids in the limo.

A ribbon of traffic stretches for miles in both directions, but luckily, we’re moving _away_ from the accident, and are able to keep up a steady pace.

About two miles from the crash site, my phone picks up a signal, and buzzes multiple notifications. I ignore my father’s messages. Wallace and Mac haven’t heard the news yet, but Logan certainly has. Six text messages wait for me in escalating states of urgency.

**Logan Echolls 5:20 PM**  
Are you okay? You were in the limo, right?

**Logan Echolls 5:26 PM**  
Nobody’s answering their phones. Can you just text me back a simple yes or no? Your name isn’t on the list of victims.

**Logan Echolls 5:29 PM**  
Your name isn’t on the survivor’s list either. Duncan’s name is on the list. Why isn’t yours? What the hell is going on?

**Logan Echolls 5:45 PM**  
I know we’re not friends, but Is it too fucking much to ask for you to just let me know you’re alive?

**Logan Echolls 5:46 PM**  
I’m fucking flipping out!

**Logan Echolls 5:51 PM**  
VERONICA!!!! ANSWER ME NOW!

Maybe it’s a nod to his concern for me, or maybe it’s just my inner Mata Hari, but instead of simply responding, I spin my ring and encrypt my reply.

**Veronica Mars 6:12 PM**  
V'z nyvir naq jryy, ohg pbhyqa’g trg n fvtany ng gur penfu fvgr. Unq n eha-va jvgu Jrrivy ng gur tnf fgngvba, naq gur ohf yrsg jvgubhg zr. Jub jbhyq’ir thrffrq gung fdhnooyvat pbhyq fnir zl yvsr?

He responds a minute later.

**Logan Echolls 6:13 PM**  
V jbhyq. Vg'f onfvp zngu. Lbhe ybir bs qnatre vf rpyvcfrq bayl ol lbhe ybir bs ovpxrevat. V'z tynq lbh'er fnsr.

 _Ass._ I laugh for the first time since the accident and text back my response.

**Veronica Mars 6:16 PM**  
Lbh'er fb shyy bs vg. V'z pbby naq pbyyrpgrq. V bayl ovpxre jvgu wnpxnffrf jub vashevngr zr

_Of which, you’re at the top of the list._

**Logan Echolls 6:18 PM**  
V erfg zl pnfr. Fb ubj vf zl qrne cny, Jrrivy? Chyy nal thaf ba lbh gbqnl?

**Veronica Mars 6:20 PM**  
Abg gbqnl. Ur qvqa'g qral vg jura V pbasebagrq uvz nobhg vg, ohg V fgvyy qba'g guvax ur tnir gur beqre.

Ahead, traffic cones block off a large pothole and, with the Southbound traffic at a standstill, Sacks slows to a crawl to squeeze around the obstacle.

One of the stationary vehicles in the opposite lane is Logan’s jackass yellow X-Terra. He never glances up from his phone as we pass, but the emotional turmoil on his features is like a punch to my gut.

**Logan Echolls 6:22 PM**  
Lbhe hajnirevat snvgu va gur ybpny pevzvany ryrzrag jbhyq or urnegjnezvat vs ur unqa'g gevrq gb zheqre zr.

My conviction that Logan didn’t kill Felix has not wavered since the night he showed up at my apartment, and it has nothing to do with the concussion or broken ribs I made the mistake once of believing him capable of murder and the results were disastrous. It’s just not who he is.

While he enjoys the occasional _violence-as-recreational-activity_ , he prefers a good mind-fuck when it comes to revenge. _Bruises fade. Emotional scars last longer._ That’s what the pool burning was, right? A symbolic kick to Weevil’s balls every time one of his young family members wanted to go swimming. Every time he had to explain why it was impossible.

**Veronica Mars 6:24 PM**  
V jnf qrsraqvat lbh, Wnpxnff. Naq snvgu unf abguvat gb qb jvgu vg. Ur'f ybfvat pbageby bs gur CPUref, naq ershfrf gb nqzvg vg.

**Logan Echolls 6:26 PM**  
Qrsraqvat yvggyr byr' zr? Naq Gur Tevapu'f fznyy urneg terj guerr fvmrf gung qnl.

_The size of your heart was never the problem, idiot._

  
**Veronica Mars 6:27 AM**  


Nyy wbxvat nfvqr, jngpu lbhe onpx, Ybtna. Jrrivy'f pbaivaprq lbh fgnoorq Sryvk, naq V qba'g guvax ur'f svavfurq pbzvat nsgre lbh.

**Logan Echolls 6:31 AM**  
Nyjnlf qb. V pbhyq unir gbyq lbh gung. Rira vs V unq gevrq gb pnyy n prnfrsver guvf fhzzre, vg gnxrf gjb cnegvrf gb raq n jne, naq Jrrivy'f va vg hagvy gur ovggre raq. Naq ol raq, V zrna ZL raq. Cebonoyl.

He nonchalant attitude about his demise makes me want to strangle him.

I don’t text him back. What’s left to say?

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 9.

Meg survived. _If you call being in a coma surviving._

She never should have been on that bus. Her rightful place was with the 09ers, in that limo. It wasn’t them she was avoiding, it was me.

Duncan’s attempts to cheer me up have the opposite effect. Why isn’t _he_ wracked with guilt? For months, he’d dated her. He’d thought she was _kewl_.

Is this how it is with him? Out with the old, in with the new? Clean sweep?

His pursuit of Meg had spared no concern for any tender feelings I might still be harboring.

Granted, he’d thought we were siblings at the time, but I hadn’t. What I’d experienced seeing them together had been like bittersweet melancholy. She was my friend, and seeing her happy made me happy.

But Meg’s reaction to my reunion with Duncan had been stronger, and instead of acknowledging her obvious pain, I’d tried to invalidate it. _You were already broken up. I didn’t steal him. I’m faultless._

It was _my_ job to protect my relationship with her, not his. I should have been a better friend.

I’ve snapped at Duncan three times in as many days. He’s avoiding me now.

I wait for him by his car. Contrite. He’s only trying to make me feel better. Isn’t that what boyfriends are supposed to do?

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 10.

So that was sex. Making love. Knocking boots. A roll in the hay.

It felt…pleasant. Nice. I mean it wasn’t painful by any means. Duncan was soft and tender, and I felt a closeness to him that’s been elusive up until now.

But… _that_ was what rules the world? Starts wars. Destroys careers and twenty-year marriages? Sells sports cars?

I guess I’d expected it to be a bit more life changing.

 _Maybe we did it wrong_ , he’d said, hearing the loud moans and pounding headboard coming from the room next door.

Maybe _I_ did it wrong. Maybe I’m not sexy? Or exciting? He’d certainly declined my thinly veiled offer to try again.

Cable TV can’t be _that_ interesting.

I wait until Duncan’s asleep to sneak out, stopping in the hallway to fix my pant leg where it’s caught on my boots.

That’s where _he_ finds me.

Shame floods my body, thickening my throat and making my knees weak.

_I’m not cheating, you’re cheating. You’re not cheating either. We’re both cheating. Who is she? I’ll ruin her. You’re mine._

His own guilt is no more than a flicker in his eyes as he closes the door. With a single glance, he simply _knows_.

I thought I’d seen him in every emotional state - from elation to rage to despair - but I’ve never seen him like this. Logan is fire. He’s an inferno of emotion burning everything in his path.

This icy person in front of me is a stranger.

I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t walk away.

“FYI, if the cuddling is the best part, he didn’t do it right.” His words are a weapon, but I fixate on them nevertheless as he walks away.

_He didn’t do it right. **He’s** the problem. Not me. _

_I can’t imagine Logan ever choosing SpectraVision over another round with me._

_Who the hell is she?_

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 11.

Almost two A.M., and I’m wide awake. I stare at the vintage Cuba travel poster above my feet - _Paradise of the Tropics_ \- and consume copious amounts of ice cream.

It’s not working tonight. Guilt has a way of ruining even Chunky Monkey.

It was unfair of me to compare boyfriends. Of course, Duncan would be different from Logan.

Logan’s been at it for years with multiple partners. He was raised in a lifestyle where sex appeal was a commodity. He probably learned it alongside his ABCs.

Duncan doesn’t have that experience. Like me, he’s only ever had sex the disastrous night of Shelly’s party, which left him scarred as well. For different, reasons, of course.

_Give him time, Veronica. With a little more practice, he’ll be rocking the headboard, too._

Still, I’d offered more practice. That’s the part I’m stuck on.

My phone buzzes above my head, and my stomach drops. Only one person would text this time of night.

**Logan Echolls 1:48 AM**  
Fb, fubhyq V jnea ure?

**Veronica Mars 1:50 AM**  
Jnea jub?

**Logan Echolls 1:52 AM**  
Svar, V'yy cynl nybat. Gur jbzna va ebbz 1147.

**Veronica Mars 1:53 AM**  
Naq jub zvtug gung or?

**Logan Echolls 1:55 AM**  
Lbh gryy zr. V'yy org lbh unq ure vqragvgl va yrff guna svir zvahgrf.

Can’t say I wasn’t close.

**Logan Echolls 1:57 AM**  
Fb, jung'yy vg or? Pnapryvat ure perqvg pneqf? Nqqvat ure gb gur SOV'f Zbfg Jnagrq Yvfg?

He knows me too well. Only Duncan’s fortuitous arrival on the scene had prevented me from doing something stupid.

**Veronica Mars 1:59 AM**  
Trg bire lbhefrys, Ybtna. V pbhyq abg or zber vaqvssrerag gb lbh be lbhe frk yvsr.

**Logan Echolls 2:01 AM**  
Xrrc gryyvat lbhefrys gung, Irebavpn.

_I do keep telling myself that. Eventually, it’ll take._

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 12.

On a list of my smartest decisions ever, joining FBLA would not be at the top. All the resume-packing and extra boyfriend-time in the world can’t be worth sitting in the same room as Duncan and Logan.

Duncan seems to think if he just ignores the problem hard enough, it’ll go away.

_Nothing wrong here. Just a Regular Joe Billionaire and his girlfriend learning about Finance. That guy? Just an acquaintance. Not my closest friend for the past twelve years._

Logan won’t play that game. Between his constant sullenness and the bitchy asides, he amps up the tension making club meetings unbearable for…well…basically, me.

After my daily visual inspection - _no blood, no bruises, no bullet holes_ \- I follow Duncan’s lead, but it doesn’t sit right with me.

Dick and Cassidy aren’t forced to take sides. They laugh at Logan’s jokes - at Duncan’s expense - and everything remains hunky-dory.

_Wish I was so lucky._

The fight comes as a relief.

I shouldn’t admit that, I suppose. I should say something like: _‘Violence solves nothing, and I don’t condone it’._

It was absolutely necessary. Duncan needed the reality check. Logan needed to be heard. They both needed the catharsis.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-:-

# 13.

Signs that my boyfriend is the absolute best: gets along with my BFF, makes us welcome in his home, willing to watch Pride and Prejudice.

Signs that my boyfriend is the worst: Laughs at Jackie’s jokes.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 14.

The sex is improving.

Duncan’s face is pressed into my shoulder and the rhythm of his movement is doing...something….to me on the inside I lift my hips to meet him, but he shifts in compensation and the feeling drifts away.

“Wait. Hold on.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I roll him onto his back and straddle him.

I’ve never done this before, but I’ve seen enough TV to grasp the basic idea. I sit straight up, and already I prefer this position where I can control the angle and friction.

I’m just starting to recapture that feeling when I notice that Duncan’s eyes are squeezed closed. His hands flop lifelessly out to his sides instead of guiding my hips like…

He seems to sense the moment my enthusiasm wanes, and he rolls me onto my back once more, pressing his face into my hair.

I can’t say I don’t understand what’s going on.

After, we lay side-by-side, and despite Logan’s words, the cuddling _is_ pretty amazing.

“I’m not your sister,” I say quietly.

“I know,” Duncan kisses the top of my head, and just when I think that’s all he has to say on the matter, he finally speaks again. “But I spent almost two years thinking you were. I’m still trying to adjust to the idea that what we’re doing isn’t wrong.”

“Do you think…?”

“Yeah. I’ll get there.”

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 15.

In a strange twist of fate, I do end up ruining _HER_.

Except, at the time when I turn Big Dick and Kendall Casablancas in for real estate fraud, I’m not aware that she’s the same woman who’s been sleeping with Logan.

I find that out later.

**_I know it isn’t true. Know it isn’t true. Love is just a lie. Made to make you blue._ **

The karaoke singer sandblasts salt into my wounds as as I die a little inside.

Knowing that Logan was seeing someone was a kick in the teeth. The visual of his stripping down for Beaver’s step-mom is unbearable.

My chest burns and I see spots in my vision.

_No Cassidy, Kendall’s motel meetings with the County Assayer were innocent - sexually speaking. Why fuck **that** guy when my under-aged boyfriend is rattling the walls and making her scream? _

Ex-boyfriend. Never forget.

As I breathe through the pain, I realize what’s missing from this scenario. The flash drive.

_Fuck._

**_Love hurts._ **

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

**This is Logan with today’s inspirational message. To love and win is the best thing. To love and lose, the next best. William M. Thackeray.**

I hang up and text instead.

**Veronica Mars 10:03 AM**  
V arrq gb gnyx gb lbh vzzrqvngryl. Dhvg fraqvat zl pnyyf gb ibvprznvy.

_And what kind of voicemail message is that anyway_

**Veronica Mars 10:06 AM**  
Vs lbh qba’g pnyy zr onpx va gur arkg svir zvahgrf, V’z pbzvat bire.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 16.

If he can’t convince Weevil to kill him, he’s going to find somebody else to do the honors. Logan’s death wish is alive and well in Neptune.

He laughs at me.

He strolls around in that ridiculous bath towel - through the wreckage of capsized lamps and rumpled sheets - so smug in his belief that I’m there out of jealousy. _Look at me. This is what you’re missing out on._

I’m exposing too much.

So is he, but not in the same way.

_No blood, no bruises, no bullet holes._

I’m tempted to bruise him, myself. Doesn’t he get it? I’ve been kicking myself for months for not warning him to watch out for Weevil that night on the bridge.

_Can’t you see, I came through for you this time? I’m here to protect you, and, you’re treating it like a joke._

I try to save his sorry, ungrateful, immoral, ass, and he throws my concern right back in my face. Devoted ex-girlfriend, my ass.

_I’m done, Buddy. Consider my devotion officially and permanently null-and-void. Get yourself killed. See if I care._

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-:-

 

# 17.

 

**Logan Echolls 12:18 AM**  
Sbe fbzrobql jub’f znqr vg gurve yvsr’f checbfr gb rkcbfr gur gehgu, lbh’er gur ovttrfg yvne V xabj.

He woke me from (almost) sleep to say _that_?

**Veronica Mars 12:21 AM**  
Jub unir V yvrq gb?

**Logan Echolls 12:24 AM**  
Lbhefrys, rirel gvzr lbh cergraq lbh’er fngvfsvrq. Juvpu vf gur ovttrfg gentrql.

**Veronica Mars 12:26 AM**  
Vg zhfg or, vs vg’f xrrcvat lbh hc nyy avtug.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-:-

# 18.

My first slip-up was to be expected.

That drug test failure would have left a stain on Wallace’s permanent record and ruined his future. What self-respecting BFF would stand aside and allow that?

The second backslide was a public service. Neptune High is bad enough without Jessie Doyle running around clocking any mean girl who looks at her funny.

And who wouldn’t take pity on Beaver Casablancas, who just wanted to look like a hero in his father’s eyes - thousand dollar check withstanding?

I have no excuse for Julie Block.

Refusing her case would have zero impact on my life. Dad doesn’t want the job. He’s already over-extended with his workload and his campaign for sheriff.

So why do I only pretend to cancel the job?

_Admit it, Veronica. This is what you live for. You’d be so much happier if you would just stop fighting the inevitable._

Maybe Logan’s text wasn’t so _completely_ off-base.

Julie’s paranoia is contagious, though. It infects me like a rash.

So here’s a dilemma. Two weeks ago, when I’d been wracked with guilt over my contribution to Meg’s situation, Duncan’s seeming indifference had disturbed me.

So shouldn’t my discovery that he spends every day outside of Meg’s hospital room come as a relief? Proof that I haven’t misjudged his character after all?

He’s clearly suffering from remorse, it just took longer to manifest than mine did.

I’ve been tied up all week - between my job and Julie’s case - so when dad calls to say he’s staying at Alicia’s for a second night in a row, it’s the perfect opportunity for a little alone-time with my boyfriend.

Recessed lighting bathes the penthouse in green and yellow when I arrive bearing Chinese. Baseball Playoff highlights stream on the television, and there’s no evidence of his “cramming for tomorrow’s Latin quiz”.

I light the candle grouping behind the couch and the vanilla fragrance mingles with the ginger, garlic and sesame of our food.

Duncan joins me on the couch, taking away my plate and pulling me close. For the first time in days, things are about to get hot-and-heavy, and I can’t wait.

I don’t know what possesses me to choose this moment to ask him about his secret hospital visits.

He. Completely. Shuts. Down.

_What did I expect? Guilt is hardly an aphrodisiac._

Where do I fit in? Are we still good, or do I serve as a constant reminder to him that his - _our_ \- actions contributed to Meg’s decision to take the bus?

_No. This is Julie’s influence. Duncan loves me._

I remind myself later that he’s only being sensitive to Lizzie Manning’s feelings when he hides me in his bedroom like a common… _Breathe, Veronica._

Julie teaches me a valuable lesson, though. When you go looking for signs of trouble, it’ll find a way of presenting itself.

I suppress my urge to copy Meg’s files onto my laptop and instead go looking for a different kind of trouble.

I stake out the entrance closest to Logan’s last class and wait near the stairs to the upper lunch patio. From this vantage point, I’ll be able to catch him regardless of which direction he takes.

A green sign to my left suggests “Don’t bury your memories. Treasure them!”

_Thanks for the advice, but I think I’ll stick with burying. It works for me._

Students pass by dressed in tanks and tee shirts, while I’m still chilly in my blazer-layered hoodie.

The bus crash has been eating at me ever since Curly Moran washed ashore with my name scrawled across his hand. Did eight innocent people die in my place?

Duncan thinks I’m paranoid, but the facts add up.

 **Fact one:** Were I to disappear, the case against Aaron Echolls would fall apart.

 **Fact two:** Curly Moran was a demolitions expert and stunt coordinator for Aaron’s first action movie, The Long Haul.

 **Fact three:** The September 24th phone call to Weevil, tipping him off that Curly was responsible for the bus crash came from _inside_ the Echolls estate.

Which is why I’m here, waiting for my jackass ex-boyfriend to get out of class.

Do I think Logan made that call? Of course not - he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Aaron’s conviction. But I need to determine who had access to the house on the date in question.

I cut him off as he exits the school, and he pulls up short.

He’s extra-theatrical today with the hand-gestures and the mustache twirling.

_No blood, no bruises, no bullet holes._

He banters, but his tone is caustic and there’s no spark in his eyes. He’s pissed.

For the first time since…ever…Logan isn’t enjoying the bickering.

It scares me.

All along I’ve worried about the external threat. Weevil. The PCHers. Jealous cuckolded Gun-toting husbands.

I’ve entirely overlooked the internal threat. I’ve never questioned Logan’s resolve to keep going - even after his night on the Coronado. He’s strong. Stronger than almost anyone.

He had his war to keep him going. And he had me. That seemed to be enough for him.

What does he have now? All alone in that huge mansion with only Kendall Casablancas to keep him company. And Dick, I suppose, if they’re still speaking since the affair came to light.

No parents. No siblings who matter. No Duncan. No me.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-:-

# 19.

“Do you ever miss Logan?” I ask, when Duncan joins me for lunch. Some part of me is expecting defensiveness, but his sincerity surprises me.

He does. Probably even more than he’s willing to admit. Sure, it’s a little manipulative of me to frame the conversation around what’s missing in _his_ life, rather than Logan’s. And when I casually imply that there would be no resistance from me if he wanted to resume their friendship? Just being a supportive girlfriend.

I give Logan the night to cool down and call him the next morning. He wearily agrees to figure out which phone dialed Weevil and get back to me.

He responds minutes later.

**Logan Echolls 11:47 AM**  
It rings in my father’s office.

He doesn’t encode the message. I encode my response.

**Veronica Mars 11:49 AM**  
Qb lbh erzrzore jub jnf va gurer gur avtug bs lbhe cnegl?

**Logan Echolls 11:51 AM**  
Nope. I was drunk.

Still not encoded. _Oh no you don’t, Logan. You might want to quit our little game, but I don’t._

**Veronica Mars 11:53 AM**  
Jryy guvax nobhg vg. Jub jnf gurer gung avtug?

**Logan Echolls 11:55 AM**  
Pretty much everyone.

_Still not giving up, Jackass._

**Veronica Mars 11:58 AM**  
V’z tbvat gb arrq anzrf. Cvpgherf. Pna lbh nfx nebhaq vs nalbar fnj fbzrobql tbvat vagb gung ebbz?

**Logan Echolls 12:01 PM**  
Unf nalbar rire gbyq lbh jung na haoryvrinoyr cnva va gur nff lbh ner?

Encoded. I smile and exhale my relief.

**Veronica Mars 12:02 PM**  
Lrnu, ohg ur’f n wnpxnff, fb vg ebyyf evtug bss zl onpx.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 20.

As if my complete humiliation at the hands of Madame Sophie (and Jackie), wasn’t bad enough; the subsequent fight with Wallace is devastating.

_How can he expect me to just let this go?_

I’ve almost grown accustomed to Logan avoiding me, so his text - and its vaguely supportive tone - comes as a surprise.

**Logan Echolls 10:34 PM**  
Znzzb-Znk? Qvqa’g nalobql rire gryy lbh gung zber guna n unaqshy vf n jnfgr?

**Veronica Mars 10:38 PM**  
Rnfl sbe lbh gb fnl jura lbhe unaqf ner gur fvmr bs pngpure’f zvggf. Unir lbh rire npghnyyl zrg nalbar jub jnf zber guna n unaqshy?

I shiver at the remembered visual of his hands engulfing my breasts, my face, my waist.

**Veronica Mars 10:40 PM**  
Arire zvaq. Cyrnfr qba’g nafjre gung.

**Logan Echolls 10:42 PM**  
Qb lbh guvax Yvyyl ernyyl jbhyq unir fnvq gung?

He’s referring to _‘should have stayed away from her boyfriend’_ , not the part about body acceptance and I laugh quietly. For all his pretend skepticism, Logan isn’t as immune to the _Woo-Woo_ as he’d have people believe.

**Veronica Mars 10:44 PM**  
Ab, fur jnf srq gung vasbezngvba, naq V xabj rknpgyl jub qvq vg. Hasbeghangryl, V’ir orra sbeovqqra sebz ergnyvngvat.

**Logan Echolls 10:48 AM**  
Fb whfg trg fbzrobql ryfr gb qb vg sbe lbh.

_Are you volunteering?_

I’m not sure even Jackie deserves Logan’s particular brand of retribution.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

# 21

The good news is that Duncan and Logan are friends again.

The bad news is that Duncan and Logan are friends again.

Which means Logan is here, at Duncan’s Homecoming after-party - visibly high, and probably drunk. He holds court in the far right corner of the room, a tall silhouette against the pink and yellow glow of the wall.

I’m here right now because I don’t know how to explain to Duncan that I’d rather be anywhere else. I hover in the opposite corner near the black iron sculpture, avoiding 09ers and replaying tonight’s debacle in my head.

Party-goers are still arriving. They wander in and out of the bedrooms and gather in small groups behind the couch or beside the front counter.

Wallace should be here. It’s my fault he isn’t.

“Hey, Veronica,” Kaylee McShane approaches. A cute redhead with a turned-up nose, her genuinely sweet personality more than compensates for her lack of intellect. “This is probably going to come across as gullible…”

“Hey, Kaylee. What’s up.”

She looks over her shoulder and then turns back, slightly embarrassed. “I got here a few minutes ago, and you know Logan and I are _friends_.” Emphasis on the last word.

I nod. _Go on._

“Well, I went to hug him hello, but he said that going forward, all touching of his body must be cleared by you first, otherwise you might get violent.”

I groan.

_Deliver me from Logan Fucking Echolls._

“He’s messing with you, Kaylee. And trying to mess with me because I confronted a friend’s cheating girlfriend.”

She rolls her eyes. “I should have known he was full of shit.”

“Up to his eyeballs. Go forth and hug to your heart’s content.”

She laughs, squeezes my shoulder, and walks away.

I try Wallace’s phone again. Straight to voicemail.

Maybe I should just head over to his place and explain myself. Grovel a little. It’s not like I can enjoy this party anyway, with so much on my mind.

No. That might make _me_ feel better. But isn’t that the problem? That’s it’s always about me?

I stick around.

Now where did my Homecoming King boyfriend disappear to?

He’s not in his bedroom or the extra room.

Logan has shifted slightly away from the group and appears to be deep in thought - or really really high. He looks good. I would have thought the blazer and jeans combo would look more…middle aged dad, but he pulls it off. Nicely.

He glances up at the sound of my voice.

“Where’d Duncan go? I thought he was over here with you.”

Logan’s spark is back. It blazes from his eyes as they travel down my body and back up again, and I suddenly feel naked. I shiver and my nipples tighten against the thin material of my dress. I don’t dare look down.

He grins - boyish and lopsided. “If he’s not polishing his crown? Probably went to get more booze.”

I nod. Sounds logical enough.

His friends have moved a few feet away, over to where they can set their glasses on the console table behind the couch. I claim their spot on the wall, giving me a sight line to the entrance. Maybe a little too close to Logan, as I can smell his skin, his shampoo.

I feel his stare on me, and I glance up, surprised to find his face so unguarded. I can’t remember the last time he looked at me without bitterness, resentment or disappointment.

“Kaylee told me what you’ve been saying about me.” _Might as well just get this out of the way._ “It had nothing to do with you, Logan. I was standing up for Wallace.”

“Right…after Jackie danced with three other guys. _I_ was the proverbial straw. What does Wallace care, anyway? He dumped her before the dance.”

_He did? Wonder why I didn’t get the memo._

_Probably because I was already on his shit list for not being supportive in his ‘Surprise-I’m-Your-Daddy’ situation._

“Still,” I say, “Jackie shouldn’t have—”

“Wait.” Logan interrupts me. “Does Wallace expect his exes to remain chaste and devoted, too? I thought that particular quirk was yours alone.”

Shelly and two of her friends walk up before I can lob back a witty response - which is fortunate, since I don’t actually have one.

“Hey, Logan.” Britney Walker, blonde, with a body that could compete with Kendall’s, slinks up to his side and tries to put her arm around him.

Logan twirls out of her reach. “Uh uh uh,” he says, waggling his finger. “Veronica didn’t approve that touch. Ask her permission, or she’s likely to put you in a Full Nelson. Don’t let her size fool you.”

_Am I dreaming? This is a nightmare, right?_

All three girls stare at me as if I've suddenly removed an invisibility ring and yelled, “Boo.” Shelly and Melina have the sense to look wary, but Britney lifts her chin, haughty and challenging. I’ve never liked Britney much.

_You want to play, Logan? I’m game._

“No,” I say, linking my arm through his and tugging him away from the wall. “No touching. He’s off limits to all of you. Spread the word to your friends.”

“But…I thought you were still dating Duncan,” Shelly says, not quite concealing her interest in my boyfriend.

“Oh, I am. But seeing Logan miserable and alone, while I date the most wonderful guy at school?” I shrug. “Double the fun.”

Logan glances over his shoulder as I drag him away, raises an eyebrow and says, “Guardian Angels. What can you do?”

I release his arm over by the couch, press a hand to his chest, and lightly shove, so that he sprawls onto the chaise section.

He smiles up at me, eyes crinkling with amusement and good cheer.

_Damn._

Everyone knows Logan is sexy. For the past several months, he’s also been sullen and angry and bitchy.

I'd forgotten how stupidly, endearingly, _cute_ he can be sometimes.

_Fuck. I’m smiling back. Retreat!_

I put on my ‘strict parent face’ “Stay here, and think about the consequences of spreading false rumors.”

His smile widens. “I’ll stay, but I’ll probably be thinking about you storming over like a badass to rip Jackie off of me.”

_And…not so cute anymore._

His laugh follows me as a I walk away.

My cell buzzes.

**Logan Echolls 11:16 AM**  
Crefbanyyl, wrnybhfl unf nyjnlf ghearq zr ba.

I turn back around, meeting Logan’s eye. He grins. I hold up my hand. He holds up his. I remove my ring from my finger and stuff it in the drawer where Duncan keeps extra napkins and silverware from room service.

Logan laughs and salutes me with his drink.

_Where’d that come from?_

Before I have a chance to locate Duncan, Gia corners me and tells me how she ‘ _kind of likes Luke Haldeman but he didn’t ask me to Homecoming…’_

Buzz. From Logan. I ignore it.

Buzz. Another text.

_“…does he like somebody else maybe he’s more into Pam…”_

Buzz.

_“… and do you think we’d be good together as a couple…”_

Buzz.

_“…I mean he’s nice and everything and his dad is congressman…”_

Buzz.

 _“…but it doesn’t matter because I kinda like this other guy but he seems more like a love ‘em and leave ‘em type and my dad always says…_ ”

Must escape.

“Sorry Gia, somebody’s really trying to get a hold of me.”

“No problem. Talk to you later.”

I shoot Logan a glare as I retrieve my ring from its hiding spot. I move back to the corner near Duncan’s bedroom to decode the texts.

**Logan Echolls 11:20 AM**  
V’q jntre

**Logan Echolls 11:21 AM**  
gung vg’yy gnxr

**Logan Echolls 11:22 PM**  
yrff guna frira

**Logan Echolls 11:12 PM**  
zrffntrf orsber

**Logan Echolls 11:23 AM**  
lbhe phevbfvgl

He is _such_ a jackass.

**Veronica Mars 11:25 PM**  
Shpx lbh, Ybtna

**Logan Echolls 11:26 AM**  
Jr’yy nyjnlf unir bhe qernzf.

“What’s that?” Duncan says, sliding up from behind.

“Nothing.” I shove the cell in my bag. “A code my dad has to crack for a case.”

“Oh. Want me to take it to Kane Software? Have them run it through their databases?”

 _I’d rather take a bath in a piranha tank._ “That’s sweet of you, but let’s save that as a last resort. The information is a bit…sensitive.”

“Sure.” He lets it drop. That’s one of the great things about Duncan. He never pushes me to divulge anything I don’t want to.

He wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I nestle against him as other 09ers close in around us.

My input is not required in the debate over whether to charter a yacht or rent out a club for the next blowout party, so I allow my mind to wander.

I need to earn Wallace’s forgiveness. And I need to start being a better friend to him going forward. I guess I’ve gotten so used to Wallace being a low-maintenance BFF, that I didn’t recognize the one time he actually did need me.

I _will_ do better and I’ll stop taking him for granted.

And then there’s Jackie. What was she even thinking? Who was she trying to hurt? Wallace? For being the one to initiate the breakup? Or me? Wasn’t it enough that the entire school found out about the Mammo-Max? She had to twist the knife a little deeper?

And here’s where logic fails me. Because in order to hurt me via Logan, he would have to mean something to me. _Which he doesn’t. At all._

Here’s a wild thought. Maybe Jackie genuinely likes Logan. Maybe she was just waiting for things to go wrong with Wallace so she could go after Logan.

_Over my dead body._

My phone buzzes. Logan. _How does he do that?_

And what could he possibly be thinking by texting me with Duncan standing right here?

He’s still sitting where I left him, and when our eyes meet, I drop the phone back into the bag.

He pushes to stand up, and I give him a downward “sit down” sign with my pointer finger.

He shakes his head back-and-forth. A three year-old’s “No”.

I repeat my sit gesture. Sharper this time.

He grins, ignores me, and joins our group. “Hey. I’m gonna get going now.”

Duncan looks him over. “You sure? You’re not looking too hot. Maybe you should call a cab.”

“Not necessary.” Logan snags a magnetic key card from his jeans pocket. “I got a room.”

Duncan laughs. “Good luck finding it in this condition.”

“Veronica looks bored,” Logan says in that innocent voice that always seems to fool Duncan. “Maybe she can be my tour guide. So I don’t end up lost and wandering the halls or something.”

“No. I’m actually rooting for that outcome.” I give him my iciest smile and gesture to the party guests. “But I’m sure one of these nice girls would be happy to help you find your room.”

“They would…if you hadn’t issued a ban on—”

I grab Logan’s shoulder, pulling him away from the group.

“No need to get violent again,” he says.

I pluck the keycard from his hand, and try to envision the hotel layout from memory. “Take the elevator down three floors. Make a right when the doors open and your room should be the second or third door on the right.”

“I’ll figure it out.” His eyes take me in once more, burning and alive. “Read your text.”

He squeezes my shoulder and leaves.

Duncan’s still arguing for the yacht charter. His bedroom is empty and I slip into the bathroom just to be alone.

To loosen some of the tension, I take down my hair, allowing it to fall free around my face.

I try Wallace’s phone one more time before decoding Logan’s message.

**Logan Echolls 12:06 AM**  
Lbh ybbx ornhgvshy gbavtug.

My chest constricts. Pleasure. Regret. Things I can’t even define.

_Deflect, Veronica._

**Veronica Mars 12:22 AM**  
Lbh’er whfg fnlvat gung orpnhfr lbh’er jnfgrq.

**Logan Echolls 12:23 AM**  
V pbhyq qevax n pnfr bs lbh qneyvat, naq V jbhyq fgvyy or ba zl srrg.

I hear him speak the words in that soft voice that used to make me melt.

_Oh you’re in my blood like holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet._

If I concentrate, I can feel his chest against my back, his arms around my waist. His breath on my neck.

I close my eyes. Inhale a remembered ocean breeze. _Soon,_ he’d said that night.

“There you are.”

I jump, startled, and my eyes meet Duncan’s in the mirror. He has that affectionate expression that usually thrills me.

“What do you say…” He wraps himself around me and leans over to my ear. “…I tell all of these people to leave so I can be alone with my beautiful girlfriend?”

His mouth trails kisses down my neck. I close my eyes and try to enjoy it, but I keep seeing Logan’s face. The hungry way he’d looked me over earlier.

_Why is Duncan always so gentle? Doesn’t he ever want to rip my clothes off?_

Turning around, I shove Duncan into the shower door and smash my mouth against his.

The kiss lasts for mere moments before Duncan pulls away, laughing, “Control yourself, She-Ra. We have all night.”

_Translation: stop acting like a slut. Have some dignity._

“Actually…” I concoct an excuse on the spot. “I just remembered this research I have to do for my dad. He needs it first thing in the morning.”

I kiss his cheek. “Goodnight.”

He calls after me, but I pretend not to hear.

The elevator doors close, and my finger touches the button to Logan’s floor. It circles the smooth glass, tests the pressure, and ultimately presses the Lobby button.

_You can’t begin to imagine my control, Duncan._

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 22.

I repeat, the bad news is, Duncan and Logan are friends again.

The scene is so three years ago. Both boys are stretched out on the couch, watching TV, and inhaling cheesy puffs. I half expect Lilly to emerge from a bedroom, warning Logan to not even think about touching her with orange powder on his fingers.

I’d probably be overcome with nostalgia, if I wasn’t so pissed.

Duncan sits in his usual corner, left arm splayed over the back of the couch. At the opposite end, Logan reclines like a diva on the chaise in that ridiculous argyle sweater. He toys with a decorative red pillow, spinning it by diagonal corners.

Midway between them I sit rigidly, in no mood for cuddling my boyfriend, and still humiliated by my three-second cuddle with Logan.

I can’t decide who to channel my anger towards. Duncan, for thinking this roommate situation could possibly work? Weevil, for making it necessary by burning down Logan’s house? Or Logan, for...general assholery _?_

I really only have myself to blame. He laid out the bait, but I didn’t have to pounce on it.

I know his body. I know Duncan’s. I should have noticed the difference immediately. If not by sight, then by scent, softness, and temperature.

Every time I glance at Duncan, my brain throbs.

“Sorry I didn’t tell ya,” he’d said when he walked in, with that “Oops” look on his face.

_Sorry I didn’t tell ya. Sorry I didn’t tell ya. Sorry I didn’t tell ya._

A dozen arguments surface. None make it past my lips.

I feel like this is a decision he should have run past me. ' _Darling, Logan is homeless and I’d like to offer him my extra room. Would that make you uncomfortable, in light of your torrid, unconsummated fling with him last summer? '_

Is it me? Am I setting adult relationship expectations on a high school romance? Or is it Duncan? How do I reconcile his claims to love me with his complete disregard for my feelings?

Did he deliberately leave me out of the decision? Or is he just so accustomed to not having to explain himself that it doesn’t even occur to him to get my input?

Whatever it is, he’s oblivious to my mood as he zones out to an episode of Bones.

Logan? Not so oblivious. From his expression, he can’t seem to decide whether to retreat or laugh at me.

_You should have picked retreat, Buddy._

My eyes harden, and I feel my lips twist into something ugly.

“So how was jail, Logan? Meet any new friends?”

“Nope. Only old ones.”

I lift a brow in question, and he gives me the signal. A tiny head shake followed by a flick of his eyes towards my boyfriend.

_We’ll talk, but not while Duncan’s around._

I tilt my head, intrigued. What could he possibly want to hide from Duncan but not me?

My bag is on the front counter. Under the pretense of making myself a cup of espresso in the fancy red machine, I retrieve my cell, wiggling it at Logan when Duncan isn’t looking.

He smirks. My need to know everything _immediately_ is a source of constant amusement for him.

I return to the couch, sipping my drink and waiting three excruciating minutes for Logan's text.

 _Buzz_.

Duncan is absorbed by the TV, and I’ve become quite adept at deciphering messages without being obvious. Just the slightest tilt of the finger and flick of the thumb.

**Logan Echolls 7:21 PM**  
Bhe srneyrff furevss cynaarq n fhecevfr snzvyl erhavba sbe zr. Gbffrq zr va n pryy jvgu qrne byq qnq.

I gasp.

_That son of a bitch._

“Come on, Veronica,” Duncan says, “Even I figured that out, and I’m not a detective.”

Logan tilts his eyes towards the TV.

_Right. He thinks I’m talking about the procedural._

“ _You_ come on. When that many clues point to a suspect, they’re red herring bait. It was way too obvious.”

Duncan seems to buy my explanation, and Logan smirks.

**Veronica Mars 7:23 PM**  
Lbh whfg ybir jngpuvat zr yvr gb zl oblsevraq, qba’g lbh?

**Logan Echolls 7:25 AM**  
Abobql nfxrq lbh gb yvr. Srry serr gb gryy uvz nobhg bhe yvggyr tnzr.

I shoot him a _‘you’ve-been-sniffing-paint-fumes’_ look.

Part of me aches for him. I was there last summer every time he returned - drained and depleted - from his emancipation meetings with his father.

I’m the one who held him when he was vulnerable. Who covered his face with kisses until he was laughing again.

I still have a hard time believing this bitter and guarded person sitting to my left is the same boy. Maybe I shouldn’t, considering his behavior after Lilly’s death, but I thought we’d crossed an emotional bridge together. I guess reuniting with Duncan was as good as burning it down.

**Veronica Mars 7:28 PM**  
Nalguvat V fubhyq xabj nobhg? Jul jnf ur gurer?

**Logan Echolls 7:30 PM**  
Ur fnvq gurl genafsreerq uvz bhg bs Pbhagl. Naq lrnu, V vzntvar lbh zvtug jnag gb xabj gung ur’f gelvat gb qrsyrpg oynzr bagb lbhe oblsevraq.

“You have got to be kidding me!” I spring off the couch, ready to take action.

_I have no actions to take._

“Veronica?” Duncan says. “It’s only a commercial.”

I glance over at the TV where an advertisement for feminine pads is playing.

“But it’s completely misleading! It presents periods as this time of joy and serenity and sterile blue liquid where we all smile and dance and do yoga in white pants. Because God forbid we fail to protect the delicate sensibilities of guys like you!”

He’s staring, open-mouthed, but I’m already on a roll.

“Well guess what, _Duncan?_ It’s all a lie. Periods are messy, and stressful and uncomfortable. They make you irritable, and you’re shit out of luck when the belly cramps and the back pain are simultaneous and you only have one freaking heating pad. So don’t tell me it’s only a commercial.”

_And…mine is due tomorrow. Guess that explains the rotten mood._

Logan collapses into a fit of giggles.

Duncan responds defensively. “I had a sister, you might recall.”

And...the room becomes suffocating.

I exhale heavily. _Why am I taking this out on him?_

“I’m going to leave now. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” I kiss Duncan’s cheek, and exit the suite.

I don’t push the elevator button yet, instead taking a moment to encode a text message.

 

**Meet me in the lobby in five min—**

“Who ya texting?” Logan peeks over my shoulder, startling me.

"Nobody now." I press the elevator button.

The doors open, and I step inside. “Going down?”

He waggles his eyebrows. “Buy me dinner first?”

I roll my eyes. “Come on.”

He gets in. We don’t speak on the ride down, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence.

“Want to sit in the hotel bar?” Logan asks when the doors open.

“No, Duncan will pass it on his way to…” _hand-wring over_ “…visit Meg.”

“So?”

“So I hurried out of the suite. How would it look if I was still here, drinking with you?”

He practically strains under the effort to hold back his comment. “Okay, come with me.”

I wait outside the hotel gift shop - which is more like a gift closet - while he grabs a snack, and then follow him down the back corridor and through an exterior door.

The immaculately-maintained swimming pool glows from dozens of underwater lights. Although the water is heated, the weather is too chilly for swimming, and therefore, the patio is abandoned.

I don’t spare a second to mourn the loss of the Echolls’ pool and the moments we shared there. _Sexy, sexy moments._ Nope, not a single second.

Logan doesn’t claim one of the seagrass lounge chairs as expected. Instead, he crosses to the opposite end and turns a corner.

Tucked into the angles of the building is an outdoor lounge area - small conversation groups of black wicker furniture with apple green cushions.

At its center, flames dance on the aqua fire-glass pebbles of a fire pit table. Logan flops onto the nearest loveseat, and pats the seat next to him.

I have other options. There’s a single-seater across from him, but there’s no point in offending the person giving you information.

I take the offered seat. “I didn’t know this patio was even out here. I wonder why Duncan never showed me.”

“That would require leaving Meg’s bedside.”

Logan empties the contents of his bag onto the table. For himself, a Pepsi and a package of gourmet toffee-caramel popcorn. He hands me the Skist and a Godiva Solid Dark Chocolate bar.

Our eyes meet, linger for a beat, and we then both look away.

My face is warm. “Thanks.”

Such a simple gesture. He knows how much I love chocolate. _But I’d never told him that when I’m PMS-ing, only dark chocolate will do._

“No problem. So I’m guessing you dragged me out here to grill me about dear old dad?”

“ _Dragged_ you out here? I never even finished typing my text.”

“Like I couldn’t tell what you were thinking? I caught your sonar. Or is it radar? Telepathy?”

“Close enough.”

We lapse into silence.

When it comes to his father, Logan often needs time to gather his thoughts.

He shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and I concentrate on my chocolate, breaking off a square, eating it slowly, and savoring the taste. It’s exactly what I needed.

Logan finally speaks. Monotone. “He said he followed Lilly home, but he didn’t touch her. Duncan heard them arguing and flew into a rage. He left while Lilly was still alive.”

“Did you believe him?”

Logan is clearly insulted by my question.

“Sorry, but he can be very persuasive.”

“Not to me.”

I lean forward, cupping my hands over the flames and absorbing their warmth. “I don’t think we can afford to take this lightly, Logan.”

“Why? He was just running his mouth. Trying to win me over to his side.” His mouth forms a sour little twist.

“Your father isn’t stupid. Anything he said would have been already cleared by his lawyers. It sounds like they plan to use Duncan as their alternative theory. I wouldn’t be surprised if evidence began surfacing to support their story.”

“You think my dad is planning to frame DK?”

“Seems likely.”

He sighs and runs a hand through the front of his hair. “How can we stop him? We can’t just let him get away with it.”

I know exactly how to stop him.

 _‘You know the drill, Veronica. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,’_ Clarence Weidman had said on the phone a mere two hours ago.

It would be so easy.

But - heinous psycho or not - I can’t be responsible for Logan losing a second parent in less than a year.

“I don’t know,” I say, “We’ll think of something.”

Logan sighs and leans back, puts his feet up on the edge of the table.

“How are you holding up?” I ask.

He shrugs, doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’ve survived worse.”

“He didn’t…try anything, did he?”

His eyes tighten and his mouth twists into a sneer. “You mean like _‘whip-off-his-belt-and-beat-me-bloody’_ try something? Sorry, the California Penal System frowns on that kind of behavior.”

I learned of Logan’s abuse back in February. It took until July for him to feel comfortable enough to open up to me. From his expression, he regrets that decision now.

I put my feet on the table next to his, and we sit silently, eating our snacks.

Something else is bothering him. He’s presented me with the facts, but a whirlwind of emotions still lurks beneath the surface.

How the encounter affected him. His fears and insecurities. How he would handle the encounter if he could do it all over again.

I know him well enough to see that he’s aching to let it all out. Yet he doesn’t.

I don’t have his trust anymore.

Maybe I could convince him to open up for me. A soft touch on his arm. Lowering my guard and allowing my features to reflect all of the compassion and concern I feel on the inside. A hug, perhaps?

Instead, I bump his shoulder with my own and say, “That sweater is really ugly. You’re wrong. Chicks do not dig argyle.”

And there’s the jackass grin. “Funny, it didn’t stop you from draping yourself all over me.”

Sometimes, opening yourself up for the obvious dig is all you have to offer.

 

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 23.

Ninety minutes. Ninety horrible, jaw-clenching minutes listening to Kendall’s porn-star impression in the next room. Logan passed ‘endurance’ an hour ago, and is firmly ensconced in ‘showing-off’ territory now.

Duncan thinks it’s funny. That Logan has pulled off some kind of coup by screwing a Laker Girl.

Too bad Duncan couldn't make it all the way through the second movie. Forrest _Fucking_ Gump. Again.

He's passed out on my right, softly snoring, while I'm stuck here digging my fingernails into my palms to keep from going in there and tossing Kendall out on her _totally awesome_ looking ass.

I'm beginning to hate this movie.

This was supposed to be _our_ night.

It started off so well. Dad out of town on a case? Check. Sexy new bra and panty set? Check. Horny boyfriend? Check.

Then Logan happened.

The mood was ruined and Duncan’s _‘no-big-deal’_ attitude was almost as off-putting as what’s happening in that room.

 _Was_ happening. It’s silent now.

_Is he finally tired out, or just taking a break before the next round?_

As if in answer, the bedroom door opens and Kendall emerges. She gives me a terse wave and shimmies to the door in her skin-tight black dress.

_Okay, it’s actually a great dress and she fills it out amazingly well, but is it necessary to dress like that to visit an under-aged boy? No wonder Logan never dates any girls from school. Who could compete?_

Another ten minutes pass before Logan surfaces, freshly showered in a clean tee shirt and pajama pants. Pausing at the room service cart, he lifts the silver cloche lid. “Well, what do you know? Somebody ate my grilled cheese.”

_Yeah, and it was delicious. I hope you starve._

Logan flops down on the other end of the couch pulling his knee into his chest.

I gather all of my anger and resentment into a tight ball, and channel it through my eyes.

He laughs aloud. “Something wrong, Veronica?”

I glance at Duncan’s sleeping form, and then snatch my cell from where it sits on the ottoman.

He watches, amused, as I stab my message onto the keys.

**Veronica Mars 1:06 AM**  
Pna lbh cyrnfr gryy lbhe *cynlzngr* gb fgbc jvgu nyy gur fuevrxvat?

A chime issues from his room.

“Sounds like I have a text message,” Logan says, all innocent-like. “I’d better check on that.”

He leaves, returning a moment later with his phone.

I return my attention to the movie. I've said what I had to say. Who cares if he responds.

**Logan Echolls 1:08 AM**  
Vs V qvqa’g xabj ubj zhpu lbh qvfyvxr zr, V zvtug vagrecerg gung nf wrnybhfl.

What else would I expect from him?

**Veronica Mars 1:10 AM**  
Uneqyl. Vg’f whfg irel qvfgenpgvat.

**Logan Echolls 1:11 AM**  
Vs lbh’er nfxvat zr gb fgbc fyrrcvat jvgu Xraqnyy, whfg fnl vg.

I glance up after deciphering the message, and he’s staring a challenge at me. He wants me to say the words.

 

**Veronica Mars 1:12 AM**  
Fyrrc jvgu jubzrire lbh jnag.

He sighs and his shoulders drop.

**Logan Echolls 1:13 AM**  
Qb lbh ernyvmr jung lbh’er nfxvat bs zr?

**Veronica Mars 1:14 AM**  
Hz…fvyrapr?

**Logan Echolls 1:15 AM**  
Juvpu jbhyq erdhver zr gb or n frysvfu ybire, bayl gnxvat pner bs zl bja arrqf.

“Oh come on,” I say aloud, rolling my eyes.

Duncan shifts in his sleep, and Logan double-taps his phone as a reminder. _Silence._

 

**Logan Echolls 1:16 AM**  
Vs nyy V pnerq nobhg jnf trggvat bss, V unir gjb tbbq unaqf naq zl zrzbevrf bs lbh.

I feel his response between my legs, and I inhale sharply.

_Breathe normally, Veronica. He only said that to get a rise out of you._

**Veronica Mars 1:18 AM**  
Lbh’er shyy bs fuvg.

**Logan Echolls 1:20 AM**  
Jnag gb xabj zl snibevgr guvat nobhg frk?

**Veronica Mars 1:22 AM**  
V’ir arire jnagrq gb xabj nalguvat YRFF va zl yvsr.

Logan smirks and tells me anyway.

**Logan Echolls 1:23 AM**  
V ybir tvivat. Ubhe hcba ubhe bs gubebhtu, vagrafvir tvivat. Jvgubhg gung, jung’f gur cbvag?

I hate my life.

**Veronica Mars 1:25 AM**  
Jryy pna lbh TVIR n yvggyr zber dhvrgyl? V urne onyy-tntf pna or n ebyyvpxvat tbbq gvzr.

Logan bursts out laughing, while Duncan sleeps on, oblivious.

I stare at the ceiling praying for an asteroid to hit the penthouse. To rescue me from this conversation and flashbacks of Logan’s intensive giving last summer.

_And to think he’d only made it as far as my breasts._

My entire body tightens in remembered pleasure, and I need to get the hell out of here.

I’ll just head in to bed. Duncan can join me whenever.

Before I can even stand, my phone buzzes again.

**Logan Echolls 1:28 AM**  
Vf gur ceboyrz ernyyl Xraqnyy’f abvfr? Be vf vg gur abvfr gung lbh’er ABG znxvat?

 

_Oh no, he didn’t._

Flames burn through my body, and my phone bears the brunt of my anger.

**Veronica Mars 1:29 AM**  
Shpx bss.

**Logan Echolls 1:31 AM**  
V’ir uvg n areir. V gnxr vg Qhapna qbrfa’g funer zl cuvybfbcul ba tvivat.

Duncan hasn’t even tried to initiate sex since his failed attempt Homecoming night. My cases and his own schedule have made it impossible to find alone time.

Tonight was supposed to remedy that.

 

**Logan Echolls 1:32 AM**  
V pna gnyx gb uvz vs lbh’q yvxr. Tvir uvz fbzr cbvagref ba ubj gb gerng n jbzna.

**Veronica Mars 1:34 AM**  
Lbh zrna yvxr fgnegvat pynff jnef gung rfpnyngr gb thafubgf guebhtu gur jvaqbj?

Logan’s eyes go hard and cold.

**Logan Echolls 1:36 AM**  
Ab, zber yvxr jung xvaq bs xvffrf jvyy trg lbh gb evqr uvf guvtu. Be V pbhyq qenj uvz n znc gb gur pyvgbevf. Vs V’z srryvat trarebhf.

 

_That’s it. I’m done._

Riding the wave of fury, I toss my phone in my bag, shove my feet into my shoes, and stalk out of the penthouse.

The elevator is taking too long to arrive, and my anger transforms into something else.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I _will_ him to follow me out. To come for me. To press me to the wall and pour all of that giving intensity into me.

He doesn’t catch my telepathy (or sonar or radar) this time. Or maybe he does, and is too spent to act upon it.

An hour later, in bed, I hear the buzzing of another incoming text.

I ignore it, too busy with my hand and memories of riding his thigh.

I read the messages in the morning.

**Logan Echolls 2:41 AM**  
V’z n wnpxnff naq V jrag jnl gbb sne. Ohg V’q or ylvat vs V fnvq V qvqa’g zrna vg.

**Logan Echolls 2:42 AM**  
Ur pna'g cbffvoyl fngvfsl lbh.

I press the phone to my breast and exhale. The worst part is, I’m starting to believe him.

 

 

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 24.

He’s bold. I’ll give him that.

After ridiculing my love life, he shows up in my bathroom office.

_‘Hey remember that time we made out against the sink and your legs were wrapped around my waist?’_

I recognize it for the performance it is. Playful and flirtatious, designed to trade on our former physical connection without putting himself on the line.

_‘I thought you could do a little sleuthing for old time’s sake.’_

Old time’s sake? I should tell him to scram. _Or amscray._ When will I ever learn?

Duncan doesn’t even blink when he sees us coming out of the girl’s bathroom together.

That’s a good thing. My boyfriend trusts me implicitly.

But shouldn’t he be at least a _little_ jealous? I do have a history of wrapping my legs around Logan’s waist.

Does he consider himself so irreplaceable that my eyes could never possibly stray? Or is it that he can’t imagine Logan being interested in me when he has Kendall, the hot girl?

I find my time being split between the needs of two desperate boys.

Logan, desperate to clear his name, and Duncan, desperate to solve his coma-girlfriend’s dilemma.

To be honest, I wish they’d help each other and leave me out of it. Aren’t they supposed to be best friends?

The week brings with it a unique opportunity to peek behind the curtain of Neptune’s families. Unsurprisingly, peeling back the layers only exposes more dysfunction and rot.

Duncan knows all of Meg’s babysitting clients. He knows to look for her house key under the flower pot. He knows the meaning of the stuffed monkey on her bed - a gift from him, I suspect. He knows her secrets, her fears, and her bedroom hiding spots.

I’m tempted to challenge him to a round of Veronica Mars Trivia, but I’m afraid I won’t like the results.

After the fear and adrenaline have receded, after I’m safe and secure in the comfort of my bedroom, I email Wallace.

I tell him about the trembling little girl in the closet - an image I may never erase from my mind. I tell him about stacks upon stacks of composition notebooks, the same words written thousands of times. I tell him about Lamb dropping us off at the side of the road instead of charging us with felonies.

I tell him that my boyfriend is in love with another girl. That his relationship with Meg was hardly the casual and fleeting thing he’d insinuated when we first got back together.

I _don’t_ tell him how this acknowledgment feels like a sinking sensation in my belly. That it’s more like resignation than the blinding white heat I experience when I’m jealous.

I don’t expect a response. I’ve emailed him every day since he left, and it’s a bit like screaming into a void. While I find a sort of catharsis in the ritual, I fear my BFF is well and truly finished with me.

 

 

[](http://imgur.com/3n9bXxM)  


-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 25.

_‘Pretend for a moment that your dog’s life is at stake.’_

Logan’s words from last night still burrow through my consciousness like a parasite.

Backup gallops across the sand, overjoyed by the unexpected morning jaunt to Dog Beach.

The glass orb I bought on my birthday rests in a divot on a log, and I crouch down behind it with my camera, capturing the sunrise through the viewfinder.

I spent a fitful night tossing and turning.  I finally dozed off in the three o'clock hour, only to be roused two hours later by rumbling earth and shaking walls.  

And when the glass sphere rolled off my shelf and onto my stomach I took it as a sign that sleep was not meant to be.  

I arose from bed early, leaving myself an extra hour before school.

The change in scenery doesn’t ward off the thoughts, but - between the comforting whir of the camera’s shutter and the orb’s flipped-on-its-head presentation of the world - I find a perspective I couldn’t grasp in the dark of my bedroom. 

_Who am I?_

I don’t recognize the person I am when I’m with Logan. The one who allows - maybe even encourages - him to believe he’s beneath _an animal_ in my regard. The one who waits for him to crawl to me for help and then grades him on his groveling technique.

Day after day he watches me play the good guy - the hero - to friends and strangers alike. But when it comes to his own problems, I’ve developed a nasty case of _stand-idly-by_.

It's a complicated mess, and I suspect it's out of some strange sense of loyalty to Duncan. Just like he'd underemphasized his attachment to Meg, I've jumped through hoops to prove that I'm over Logan.

_Except here's the kicker: Duncan doesn't care._

He can't imagine a scenario where he's not the good guy prince. Where he's not preferred boyfriend. The chosen one. He probably thinks I only dated Logan because he showed up first at my door.

That's why he doesn't sweat it when he sees Logan trail me out of the girl's bathroom. That's why - when he wakes to find Logan and I involved in an intense conversation - he's secure enough to leave us alone and head off to bed. Without even a _'Goodnight'_.

He doesn't see Logan as a threat, and perhaps that's the real reason why his lack of jealousy rubs me the wrong way.

Because Logan is absolutely a threat. He's always been a threat - from the day I reunited with Duncan, to last night, standing in the orange glow of the entrance lighting, his eyes pleading for my help.

No matter how much effort and energy I put into my relationship with Duncan, I can't seem to expand our connection beyond a thin filament, while my connection to Logan is more like a thick rope that refuses to unravel - regardless of how much I pick at the edges..

_‘Pretend for a moment that your dog’s life is at stake.’_

He thinks I don't care about him. He thinks I'll stand back and watch him go to prison for a crime he didn't commit.

_I've given him no reason to believe otherwise._

[](http://imgur.com/AOsRRjj)

Today, the sand in the glass seems heavy - like an oppressive concrete blanket, smothering the citrus-colored stains of the sky.

Rotating to the right allows my camera to capture waves and sky instead.

I usually mark the burning of the city pool as the demise of our relationship last summer, but it was probably doomed from the start.

Above all else, I craved Normalcy - with a capital N. A slightly edgier version of the teenage dream.

Hello to long days on the beach, movie dates, and backseat makeouts. Goodbye to cheating spouses, insurance fraud, and stakeouts. Goodbye to Danger.

Logan tried. He really did. But he was too damaged to ever quite fit into the Duncan mold I attempted to mash him into.

I wanted Snark Ken and Leather Barbie.

He wanted to survive. Outside of a jail cell, preferably.

He never asked for my help.

Looking back, it’s embarrassing how little provocation it took for me to backslide into investigating.

I could have cleared Logan’s name in a matter of weeks. It never had to come to shotgun blasts and burned swimming pools. But I’d walked away from the life. I wanted Normal. And he respected my wishes. Kept me out of it.

I’ve harbored so much resentment towards him since our breakup, and I can’t understand why.

It’s not the pool burning. As horrible and inexcusable as it was, it no longer produces an emotional response in me.

And it’s not as if I can’t logically understand what kept him fighting. Like he said, it takes two to stop a war.

Have I been subconsciously punishing him all this time for being unable to conform to my dream? Because Normalcy wasn’t the only thing I wanted. I wanted _him_. I wanted him to choose to live a Normal life as my Normal boyfriend.

_I still want him._

Logan was never going to be Normal. He’s about the furthest thing from it. And that's fine, because he possesses other amazing qualities.

He's loyal and smart, creative and inventive. His sense of humor gels perfectly with mine and he can laugh at himself. As a boyfriend, he's romantic and affectionate. He's emotionally available, and he puts himself out there, even when there’s the potential of getting hurt. He feels intensely. He loves intensely. He's considerate and observant. He's tender, patient, sexy-as-fuck and the best kisser in existence. He liked me exactly as I was, not some idealized version of me.

And he never ever made me watch Forrest Gump.

He’s still _far_ from being a saint. I haven't forgotten that he has a dozen negative qualities as well.

I guess they just don't seem as dire as they used to.

_God, I miss him._

**Veronica Mars 6:41 AM**  
Lbh hc lrg?

**Logan Echolls 6:42 AM**  
Jung’f fyrrc gb gur pbaqrzarq?

**Veronica Mars 6:45 AM**  
Lbh’yy yrnea fbba rabhtu. Jr’er tbvat gb trg lbh bhg bs guvf zrff.

**Logan Echolls 6:47 AM**  
Qvq lbh yrnea fbzrguvat arj?

**Veronica Mars 6:49 AM**  
Ab. V whfg jnagrq lbh gb xabj gung V jba’g fgbc hagvy lbhe anzr unf orra pyrnerq.

**Logan Echolls 6:51 AM**  
Fbzrjurer va Arcghar, n onq thl whfg fuvirerq.

**Veronica Mars 6:53 AM**  
Jr unir gjb bowrpgvirf - qvfperqvg gur jvgarff, naq svaq gur erny xvyyre. Gbzbeebj’f Fngheqnl. Pna lbh zrrg zr ng gur cragubhfr ng abba? Jr’yy tb genpx qbja gung Qnaal Oblq punenpgre.

**Logan Echolls 6:55 AM**  
V’yy or gurer. Gunax lbh, Irebavpn. Lbh qba’g xabj jung vg zrnaf gb zr.

**Veronica Mars 6:57 AM**  
Fher V qb.

I’m never going to be Normal, either. I've built my life around it for months, and it’s turned out to be disappointingly overrated.

 

[](http://imgur.com/E5C1wkw)


	2. There is something I see in you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I believe I promised you all a two-chapter story. I lied. Didn't mean to. I was close to posting chapter two. All 22K words of it. And then today, due to a computer glitch, I lost eleven days worth of revisions. Eleven days where I'd made a HUGE amount of progress, and had written some stuff I was pretty proud of. I've tried everything, but I can't get it back.
> 
> I'm choosing to take this as a sign. Nobody wants to read a 22K chapter, anyway. So while I go back to work trying to reconstruct the changes I've lost, I'm going to go ahead and post the first half. It's not entirely ready - I could probably convince myself to rewrite one of these scenes from scratch if I gave it enough time - but it's *something* and I'm still a little devastated over the lost revisions. So this is now officially a three-shot story. 
> 
> As before, use Rot13.com to decode the text messages.

# 26.

**Veronica Mars 11:41 AM**  
Or gurer va n ovg. Va gur zrnagvzr, V'q ybir n ynggr sebz gung snapl pbssrr fubc ol lbhe ubgry.

**Veronica Mars 11:43 AM**  
Gur xvaq jvgu gur pehapul gbssrr cvrprf naq pnenzry qevmmyr, cyrnfr.

**Logan Echolls 11:47 AM**  
Juvccrq pernz?

**Veronica Mars 11:51 AM**  
Lbh ernyyl arrq gb nfx? V gubhtug lbh xarj zr.

Duncan sprawls on the couch, watching _Saved By the Bell_ reruns. The suite reeks of burnt popcorn, and a bowl of unpopped kernels sits on the ottoman.

"Hey. Logan ran out for some coffee, but he should be right back. Take a seat." He smiles and pats the space next to him.  
  
I ignore his invitation, crossing my arms over my chest. "Tell me why Kendall was in your room _'for a while._ '"  
  
His body goes rigid, but he plays it off with an eye-roll. "Come on, Veronica. Logan starts shit. You should know that by now."  
  
I don't budge. "You said she wanted your help with something?"  
  
His eyes frost over, and all signals indicate he's about to shift into shut-down mode. "Nothing happened. Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Nothing? What could you possibly assist Kendall with that Logan can't? Calculus? Latin?"  
  
"Fine. You want the truth?" His voice raises and his chin does this belligerent thing that drives me nuts. "I came out of the shower and found Kendall naked in my bed, but I didn't touch her, Veronica. I swear to God. I asked her to leave. It just seemed pointless to tell you."  
  
"Were you tempted?"  
  
His gaze drops.  
  
"I guess that answers my question."  
  
"You're disappointed."  
  
I stare at the TV, where Screech proves himself incapable of walking and stalking Lisa at the same time. The inevitable tumble occurs, and the laugh-track rumbles.  
  
"Veronica, there isn't a man alive who wouldn't be tempted by Kendall. She's gorgeous and sexy and experienced, but actions count, not thoughts."  
  
_Wow. Could he twist the knife any harder? _  
  
I laugh, hard and bitter. "You think that's why I'm disappointed?"  
  
_Nice job, Veronica. That thought was supposed to stay on the inside._  
  
"Well?" He prompts.  
  
_Dammit._  
  
I exhale. "Honestly? I guess a part of me hoped you did cheat."  
  
Duncan fumbles for the remote and hits the red power button. The room goes silent, and for the first time in months, he gives me his undivided attention. "How can you say something like that?"  
  
"Because it would put me on the moral high ground. No guilt up there."  
  
He stands, putting his hands on my shoulders. "What do you have to feel guilty about? What did you do?"  
  
"For not being in love with you." I stare at the floor. "And for not wanting to be in this relationship anymore."  
  
"You're breaking up with me?" Duncan's voice rises, incredulous.  
  
I twist out of his grasp, scanning the room for breakables. I can't let this escalate like my last breakup.  
  
He reacts to my anxiety by switching to his _calm-the-irrational-female_ voice. " Babe, you don't have to do this today. Why don't you take some time to be sure this is what you want. I'll still be here."  
  
"You think I'm doing this on a whim?"  
  
"Well, it is kinda out of nowhere. We haven't been fighting or anything."  
  
"Why would we? I've rationalized everything away."  
  
It's true. I ignored my instincts - every niggling doubt, every moment of discontent - while allowing Duncan to convince me our problems were all in my head.  
  
Predisposed to view him as a good and noble person, I hand-waved away every incident, and judged his motives as honorable.  
  
_It's not the relationship, its me. The unease I'm experiencing is my troublemaker side, still chafing at being Normal. That restlessness is my guilt over having lingering feelings for Logan. _  
  
My emails to Wallace provided clarity. Viewing them as if I were an outside party, they painted a picture of a girl shifting the narrative to relieve a boy of culpability. A girl who doesn't feel entitled to her own anger - possibly because the boy is employing subtle gaslighting techniques against her. It's one big rationalization after another.  
  
_And isn't that a clear sign I'm on the wrong path? _  
  
" You won't even notice my absence. We're barely a couple anymore," I say.  
  
"How can you do this to me? To us?" He whines. "After everything we've been through?"  
  
" _We've_ been through? " I repeat, my tone caustic. "What have we been through, Duncan? My memory must be faulty, because all I recall is you leaving me to face everything alone. Losing Lilly. Becoming the school pariah." I clench my jaw. "The loss of my virginity."  
  
He flinches, begins to speak, and I cut him off.  
  
"As for what you said before, you're wrong. Thoughts do count. You've been emotionally unfaithful for months. We both know Meg would be your first choice, and I can't be her. I can't even be who I used to be."  
  
Duncan's anger deflates like pricked balloon. "Maybe it's for the best," he says, collapsing back on the couch.  
  
I sigh, relieved by the deescalation. "I'm glad we're in agreement."  
  
"Meg is pregnant."  
  
"She's WHAT?"  
  
I'm horrified at first, imagining some shadowy figure molesting her comatose body, then it sinks in why this is relevant to our breakup.  
  
_The baby is Duncan's. _  
  
" But you two never slept together."  
  
"I never said that. You just assumed it."  
  
"And you never corrected me. You let me believe I was your only." My vision clouds, and there's a pounding in my ears. "How did this even happen?"  
  
"I guess she was pregnant when the bus crashed."  
  
I turn my ire on him. "And you kept that from me?"  
  
"I only found out a few days ago."  
  
"I repeat: you kept that from me? I should've been the _first_ person you talked to. "  
  
He lifts his eyes, defiant. "What does it matter now? You dumped me, remember?"  
  
I have more to say - A LOT more - but the suite's door opens.  
  
Logan walks in, carrying two cups and wearing a leather racing jacket that makes him look downright edible.  
  
He stops, staring at me and Duncan. "Is something wrong?"  
  
"Nope, everything's _peachy_. " I say, rushing towards the door. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 27.

He's going to die.  
  
He's going to end up as some stupid chalk outline on a cracked sidewalk, a jumbled collection of roses and stuffed animals from hangers-on who think they know him.  
  
They don't know him at all - only his public persona. They don't care about him. They don't love him.  
  
_I love him._  
  
I love him so much I would rip my heart from my chest if I thought it could make it go away.  
  
His death would create a gaping, cavernous, wound in my soul, where _words never spoken_ careen against _truths unacknowledged_ , slicing me apart from the inside out.  
  
This is why I ended things last summer - this aching, terrifying, sense of certainty that he'll wind up dead - as well as his lack of comprehension of how that would affect me. Destroy me.  
  
He's my heart.  
  
And he's my kryptonite. Eventually, he'll be my downfall.  
  
Logan touches me and, despite all attempts at remaining calm, I can no longer hold back the tears. I'm sobbing, my body trembles all over, and my heart is about to explode.  
  
"Hey, it's okay," he murmurs. "You're gonna be okay."  
  
I shake off his hand. _Does he really think he can fix this with a pat on the back?_  
  
"A GUN LOGAN? A GUN? WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH A GUN?"

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 28.

In hindsight, I could've handled the situation better.  
  
I'm not ungrateful. He's alive. I'm alive. And my face won't inspire bad renditions of _They're Magically Delicious_ every time I approach.  
  
Chalk  it up to the fear. My utter helplessness in the face of Liam Fitzpatrick's overwhelming strength took me back to August. Shotgun blasts and raining glass. Blood and broken ribs. The shouts and jeers of Neptune's citizens.  
  
It's a setback, and I can't say it doesn't make me question my decision. Do I really want to be swept up in the maelstrom that is Logan's life?  
  
My instincts say this is different, though.  
  
Last summer - filled with self-righteous rage - Logan sought out danger, running with his pack and inciting mayhem across Neptune. He'd been lashing out at the world; hurting people and enjoying it. I wasn't sure he'd survive to start senior year.  
  
These days, his former fury has fizzled into resignation. He doesn't go out looking for trouble. He rarely leaves the suite, to be honest. His destructive tendencies have become self-directed. Still a problem, but typical Logan, nevertheless. He shows up at school every day, and seems to be passing his classes, despite his lack of any supervision.  
  
He's still not out of danger, and the gun needs to go, but I'm relieved that some part him still values living enough to care about defending himself.  
  
My resolve to help him hasn't wavered. I'm still committed to getting him out of this mess.  
  
_I need to tell him that. After my meltdown in the car, I wouldn't be surprised if he's given up on me._

**Veronica Mars 3:21 PM**  
V'z fgvyy natel, ohg V thrff V'z tynq jr'er obgu fgvyy nyvir.

**Logan Echolls 3:32 PM**  
Gung zhfg unir orra cnvashy gb nqzvg. Lbh'er jrypbzr.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦-

# 29.

Between classes, catching sight of a familiar long neck and razor-precise hairline weaving through the hall, I smile and pick up my pace. Something about the way his snug tee-shirt outlines his shoulder blades makes my insides warm.  
  
"Colleen, wait up," he calls out, right before I reach him.  
  
A serious-looking, dark-eyed brunette pauses and smiles as if surprised by his attention. "Hey, Logan." She's approximately my height and wears a JV cheerleading uniform.  
  
"Hey." He touches her arm. "That girl Hannah you hang around with? What can you tell me about her?"  
  
She falls in beside him, rolling her eyes. "I have more than one friend named Hannah."  
  
"You know who I mean. Tall, skinny, blonde." He holds out a hand around eye-height. "Legs up to the sky. Is she dating anyone?"  
  
My chest tightens and I fall back, not wanting to hear the rest.  
  
_What? Did you think you could just hit the reset button and go back?_

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦-

# 30.

"Help me, Mars Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope." Logan taps my locker with the side of his hand and walks away.  
  
_Mars Wan  Kenobi? You can't think of any...cuter...Star Wars characters?_  
  
We joke and we banter, but under the bravado he's scared shitless. I console myself sometimes by imagining Logan running the show in prison. By never underestimating his ability to turn a situation to his advantage.  
  
But we both know which outcome is more probable. Between his pretty face, his Hollywood lineage, and his arrogance, he would be an instant target. He wouldn't take it lying down, either, he would come back harder. Hard enough to end up dead.  
  
The very thought of what prison could do to him almost causes my lunch to come back up. Hannah-Something or not, I NEED to clear his name.  
  
I slam my locker and turn, coming face to face with the malignant glare of my favorite PCHer.  
  
_But first, I need to keep Weevil from killing him._

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦-

# 31.

  
I promised my father I would ask around at school about Marcos Oliveres. Did he have any enemies? Secrets? Dad suspects the harassment against the Oliveres family is motivated by personal reasons rather than financial.  
  
I ferret out more information than I ever wanted to know.  
  
"Michelle! Why ain't ya picking up, you big loser?" Rhonda Lambert's voice echoes from beyond the grave, as I let myself into our apartment.  
  
Dad sits at the kitchen counter, rewinding and replaying the message, as he's prone to doing since losing the election.  
  
I still regret not sending the voicemail to the local news when I had the chance. He'd been noble not to use the bus tragedy to secure votes, but his opponent hadn't played by the same rules. Dad had been in the lead until Lamb's announcement that the driver, Ed Doyle never would've been hired by the school district, had a young Deputy Mars charged him with DUI back in 1989.  
  
This recording could've cleared dad's name, proving the bus crash was a murder attempt, not driver error.  
  
_Wouldn't the ends have justified the means?_  
  
"Something smells delicious," I say, by way of greeting.  
  
Dad glances up and presses stop. "Hey honey. Can I get you some beef  stew?"  
  
"As hungry as I am, you might as well just hand me the pot and a big spoon."  
  
He grins. "Bowl of stew, it is."  
  
"I'll be right back." I hang my bag and hoodie in my bedroom and check my email.  
  
I do a double-take seeing Wallace's name in my inbox. Giddiness fills me, and - just as quickly - evaporates. This isn't a reconciliation. He's asking for more time to think.  
  
I miss him so much it hurts.  
  
Back in the kitchen, dad presents me with a bowl, a spoon, a thick slice of bread and the butter dish.  
  
I don't have the heart to tell him I've lost my appetite. I angle my chin at the machine.  
"Why are you listening to that?"  
  
"I don't know." He sighs. "There's...something...just out of reach I'm missing."  
  
"You're investigating the bus crash," I say.  
  
"Somebody has to. Despite Woody Goodman's assurances, Lamb certainly isn't doing anything about it."  
  
I slather butter on my bread, careful not to rip it. "I'm surprised Rhonda Lambert had cell reception at the time of the crash. Nobody else at the site did. Except for Sacks, of course."  
  
Dad leans forward, interest piqued. "That could be important to the investigation. You wouldn't happen to know what phone carriers the other students use, would you?"  
  
"Duncan is with Verizon. My Sidekick is T-Mobile. I'm not sure what everyone else has."  
  
"No, that's a good start," Dad says. "I can work with this."  
  
"So we agree the killer set off the explosives with a cell, then?"  
  
"No evidence either way, but if I had to guess? I'd say it was detonated by mobile phone. By someone close enough to know exactly when to make the call."  
  
Steam rises from my bowl, and I blow on it. "Like somebody inside the limo."  
  
Dad gives me a slow nod.  
  
"By nature, bombs are premeditated. Which means whoever detonated it knew in advance we'd be riding behind in a limo." Cold fingers tiptoe down my spine. "I didn't think Dick had it in him. I fell for the dumb surfer act."  
  
"Dick Casablancas?"  
  
"He's the one who arranged the limousine. He said the bus smelled like ass."  
  
Dad's eyes widen as if he's having an _A-ha_ moment. "The dead rat!"  
  
"A snitch or a rodent?"  
  
He shakes his head. "In the bus wreckage. Someone duct taped a rat carcass to the underside of one of the seats."  
  
"That's...repulsive. What do you think it meant?"  
  
"It was intended to stink. If  Dick hadn't arranged for alternate transportation, somebody else would've."  
  
"But why the limo," I ask, taking a tentative bite of stew. "Why not just conveniently miss the bus and drive behind?"  
  
Dad shrugs. "Whoever did it wanted to separate the haves from the have-not's. The intended victim was somebody who remained on the bus."  
  
For the first time since learning of Aaron's connection to Curly Moran, something deep within me unclenches. I wasn't the target. Nobody could've predicted I'd ride in a different vehicle from Duncan.  
  
I'm not responsible for the deaths of all those people.  
  
"Somebody like Marcos Oliveres?" I ask.  
  
"Could be. Were you able to learn anything about him?"  
  
I relay to Dad how - while living out his "Pump Up The Volume" fantasies as Cap'n Crunk on the "Ahoy Mateys" radio show - Marcos not only ridiculed half the student body, but insinuated nasty secrets people might be desperate to protect.  
  
Maybe even desperate enough to send a bus over a cliff.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦-

# 32.

Several more days pass before I'm able to free up time for Logan's case.

I print out the "About" Page for "Camp SelfQuest" - the _program-the-gay-away_ summer camp the Oliveres family sent Marcos to. Dropping it on dad's desk, I text Logan on my way out.

**Veronica Mars 3:11 PM**  
V unir n fuvsg ng Wnin hagvy 10:00 CZ. Yrg'f trg gbtrgure nsgrejneqf naq gnyx nobhg lbhe pnfr.

**Logan Echolls 3:14 PM**  
Lbh jnag gb zrrg ng gur Cragubhfr?

**Veronica Mars 3:17 PM**  
Jvyy Qhapna or gurer?

**Logan Echolls 3:21 PM**  
Lbh'q xabj orggre guna V jbhyq. Npghnyyl, ur'yy bayl qvfgenpg lbh. V'yy zrrg lbh ng Wnin, vafgrnq.

_Great, Duncan. Leave it to me to find a casual, offhand way to mention the breakup._

**Veronica Mars 3:25 PM**  
Frr lbh gura. Lbh'er gerngvat zr gb n ynggr naq fgenjoreel purrfrpnxr sbe guvf, evpu obl.

**Logan Echolls 3:28 PM**  
Nf ybat nf V pna trg lbhe rzcyblrr qvfpbhag. Frr ln ng 10:00.

Logan doesn't arrive at 10:00 PM. He doesn't arrive at all. I call his phone, I call the room phone, I even call Duncan's phone, but nobody answers. I drive over to the Grand and pound on the suite's door. Same result.  
  
_If he's shacked up  with Kendall somewhere, I'm going to..._  
  
Except...I can't stop picturing Weevil's calculating stare after he saw Logan at my locker. I call his phone too, but it sends me to voicemail.  
  
Taking a seat on an ultra-modern lobby chair, I swallow my pride and dial Dick.  
  
He answers on the third ring. "Yo! Ronnie. This better be good. I'm in the middle of a game."  
  
"I'm looking for Logan."  
  
"Logan has his own phone."  
  
Loud exhale. "I'm aware of that. I've been calling him for twenty minutes and he isn't answering."  
  
Dick makes a little fake gasp. "That doesn't tell you something? Like maybe he's done being led around by the testicles? Go bother your own boyfriend."  
  
"This is important, Dick. He was supposed to meet me, but he never showed." I twist the index finger of my free hand around one of my belt loops until it hurts.  
  
"Talk to Beav. My jiggly beach babes are waiting for daddy."  
  
"Gross,"  
  
Beaver comes on the line. "Hey, Veronica. He's talking about a volleyball video game by the way."  
  
"Hi Cassidy. I kind of figured as much."  
  
"You're looking for Logan?"  
  
"Yeah. He's not at the Grand, and he's not answering his phone. I'm starting to get worried."  
  
"He was here," Beaver says. "Out by the pool, but he left around nine. Said he had to meet somebody."  
  
Dammit.  
  
"We were supposed to meet at the Hut. Do you think he could've been..." I exhale. "...sidetracked...by Kendall on his way out?"  
  
"Doubt it. She flipped him off and went inside when he showed up. I can check, though."  
  
Muffled sounds of him moving through the house, a knock, and the squeak of a door opening.  
  
"What do you want?" Kendall's voice asks.  
  
"From you? Nothing," Beaver says. "Same as Logan."  
  
The door closes, and another door opens. "His truck's not in the driveway, either. He's gone.  Maybe he's with that new girl he's been talking to. I can't remember her name, but...?"

_Hannah.  Her name is Hannah._  
  
"Thanks for your help, Be--Cassidy. Would you mind calling around? Check if anybody else  has seen him? I didn't like the way Weevil looked at him yesterday."  
  
"Sure, Veronica. I'll get back to you if I hear anything."  
  
I try Weevil's phone three more times, Logan's four times, and Duncan's once.  
  
I could camp out in the Grand's lobby, but unless Logan has inexplicably decided to avoid me, it's useless.  
  
_No, I need to take action._

I call my dad. "How well does your cell phone tracker work at locating phones?"  
  
"Honey?" he says. "If you're hoping to track down that boyfriend of yours, you should take some time to consider whether it's worth violating his privacy."  
  
"I'm not looking for Duncan, dad." _I know exactly where to find him._ "I need to locate someone else."  
  
"Have you activated the GPS on 'somebody else's' phone?" Dad asks. "Otherwise it won't work."  
  
_Damn._ Why hadn't I  thought of that? As much trouble as Logan gets in...  
  
"So there's no other way?"  
  
"I wouldn't say that..." Dad says. "What's this really about, Veronica?"  
  
I brace myself. "It's Logan, Dad."  
  
"Logan..." He exhales the name in that way he always does.  
  
"I'm helping him out. He's being framed." I don't dare mention the Fitzpatrick connection. "He left the Casablancas house at nineto meet me at the Hut, and then just disappeared. He's not at The Grand and he's not answering his cell."  
  
"Honey. It's Logan. You know he's not the most..."  
  
"Dad. Something's wrong. I can feel it in my bones."  
  
"Okay. I'm staking out the Oliveres house, but text me Logan's number, and I'll make a few phone calls. See if we can get a location on it."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
I should go back to The Hut. Maybe Logan was just running late and his cell battery died. He could be sitting there right now sighing dramatically over my absence and staring at the imaginary watch on his wrist.  
  
I drive to the Casablancas house first, peeking through the gates for any glimpses of of the X-Terra. Nothing. Not that Cassidy has any reason to lie.  
  
There are three potential routes between here and The Hut. The scenic route meanders several minutes out of the way. He would only pick that direction if he wanted to prolong alone-time with some lucky girl. The second choice travels through the shopping district. Being forced to stop at red lights every two blocks would make him crawl out of his skin. I choose the third route, driving slowly and scanning the side of the road for his truck.  
  
On Adams, my eyes drift to The Ould Sod (where my mom once passed out on a bar stool) almost causing me to miss the flash of yellow on my left. I catch it in my periphery, and turn around at the intersection.  
  
The XTerra is parked in a dark parking lot next to the One Hour Photo. No Logan. A red light flickers on the passenger's seat, and my flashlight confirms what I suspected.  
  
His phone.  
  
_ When will he ever learn not to leave it sitting in his car?_  
  
I call my father back.  
  
"Hey sweetheart, I haven't heard back from my contact yet."  
  
"Doesn't matter. I found Logan's cell. And his truck. No sign of him." I shine the light in the backseat. Nothing suspicious.  
  
"Where are you at?"  
  
"Over on Adams in a small lot."  
  
"Landmarks?" he prompts.  
  
"One Hour Photo. Closed for the night. Nothing on the other side. Across the street, The Ould Sod, a comic book store - also closed \- and The Corner Market stand in a row."  
  
"Hmmm..." Dad says. "That bar is pretty good about checking ID's, but if he has a good enough fake..."  
  
"I wouldn't know."

He does. I made it for him.  
  
"Right..." Dad chuckles. "I'm sure he's fine, Veronica. Probably stopped off for a drink and lost track of the time."  
  
"Possible but, if I remember, that bar caters to an older - and less moneyed - clientele. This wouldn't be his scene. Not to mention, he wants to clear his name as much as I do."  
  
I round the back of his truck, aim the flashlight into the cargo area. Empty. "Nothing suspicious inside the car."  
  
"That's a good sign."  
  
I turn and my foot strikes something. There's a tinny clunk, and the sound of something rolling.  
  
Crouching, I shine my light under the vehicle.  
  
A can of Pepsi rolls to the tire and stops. A medium-sized brown paper bag lays on its side, precisely folded over twice.  
  
"I think I found something," I say. "I'll call you back."  
  
My fears are confirmed. The contents of the bag include Logan's favorite brand of gum, a shiny red apple, and box of Live Large condoms.  
  
_Wait. He didn't think...?_  
  
No, of course he didn't, they're for someone else. Kendall. Or  _Hannah-whatever_. Did he make plans for after our meeting?  
  
Is it that large?  
  
_How can the size of Logan' s penis possibly matter at a time like this, Veronica?_  
  
Right. Focus.  
  
I jog across the street. A bell rings on the door of The Corner Market, but the heavyset bearded man behind the register doesn't glance up.  
  
"Excuse me," I set  the bag down on counter.  
  
"No refunds," the man says, monotone.  
  
"That's not what this is," I say. "I'm looking for somebody. The person who made these purchases."  
  
I open the bag wide, and the cashier glances inside and shrugs. "Sorry. I don't pay much attention to what people buy."  
  
"Damn."  
  
Do I have a photo of him?  
  
Of course I do. We dated for an entire summer. I flip through the photos on my Sidekick, selecting my favorite. "Do you recognize this guy?"  
  
The cashier leans in, squints, and a smile inches across his face. "I saw him. He came in around nine twenty-five."  
  
"Are you sure? That's kind of specific."  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure, because Victor's shift ended at nine thirty, and he laughed at your friend's ugly jacket and shell necklace." He lifts up a hand. "Sorry. His words. Not mine."  
  
"S'okay. His fashion sense could use some work. What did the jacket look like?"  
  
"Lightweight. Dark green with a bright orange zipper area. Brown stripe around..." He trails off, using his hands to demonstrate the location.  
  
"Right. I know the jacket. Not even his ugliest," I share a pained smile with the guy.  
  
"You're not like a jealous girlfriend or something, are you?"  
  
"Or something. Look, his truck is parked in the lot across the street and I found this bag on the ground. I think he's in trouble and I'm just trying to find him."  
  
"Did you call the police?"  
  
"I'm hoping to avoid that. The Sheriff's Department can be pretty incompetent." But come to think of it... "Actually, maybe they picked him up for something. Did you hear any sirens?"  
  
"No, sorry. I would've seen the lights, though. They bounce off the reflectors like disco balls." He points at the curved mirrors in the back corners of the store.  
  
"Did he talk to anyone while he was in here? Make any phone calls?"  
  
"He wasn't here long. Came in, headed straight to the gum section, grabbed the soda and the apple and rang out."  
  
"And the condoms?"  
  
The man gestures at a spinner rack on his right. "Seemed like an impulse buy."  
  
"You're pretty observant for someone who never pays attention."  
  
He shrugs and his wide smile reminds me a bit of Leo. "Unlike Victor, I thought the guy was hot."  
  
It's a sign of how afraid I am, that I skip the usual quip.  

I wave goodbye, and rush to the door.    
  
"Good luck," the guys calls out.  

As I exit the cool air conditioned store into the warm night air, a bout of dizziness comes over me and I have to press my numb fingers into the bricks.  My heartbeat races.  

_Dammit. You're no good to Logan if you can't get a grip on yourself, Veronica._

I replay my mental timeline.  

Logan takes off from the Casablancas house and comes straight here. Suffering from gum withdrawal, he probably stops on impulse. After leaving the store, he crosses to his truck with his purchases, where he is either abducted, arrested, or leaves on his own.

I'll check the bar in a moment, but even if he suddenly developed a thirst his Pepsi couldn't quench, why would he leave the bag under his vehicle instead of inside?  
  
A woman's voice answers at the Sheriff's Department. Not Inga. "Logan Echolls?" she repeats. "That's E-C-H-O-L-L-S?"  
  
"What did Logan do now?" somebody asks in the background.  
  
Lamb's voice comes on the line. "This is Sheriff Don Lamb. Has Logan Echolls committed a crime?"  
  
I exhale hard. "You tell me. I'm calling to check if he's been picked up for anything. He's missing."  
  
"Awww, did Logan stand you up for a date, honey?" Lamb coos. "Take my advice and move on to another boy. One that isn't homicidal."  
  
"This is Veronica Mars," I switch to a no-bullshit tone. "At 9:25, Logan Echolls exited the Corner Market over on Adams. He crossed the road to his truck, and then vanished leaving his bag of purchases on the ground. Nobody's heard from him since. I'm calling to find out if he's in lockup, for whatever reason."  
  
"No Veronica, we haven't nabbed him for anything today, but the night's still young."  
  
"This is serious, Lamb! You know half the town wants him dead for what they think he did to Felix Toombs."  
  
"What do you want me to do about it?"  
  
"Find him."  
  
Lamb clears his throat. "Nine twenty-five was what? An hour and a half ago? Have a relative call back when he's been missing for twenty-four hours."  
  
"He's a minor."  
  
"An emancipated minor. Now if you'll excuse me, Veronica, I have real crimes to solve."  
  
The line goes dead and I want to scream.  
  
The 24-hour rule is a myth, but who do you report the sheriff to?  
  
The hospital's main switchboard is still in my phone's Contacts from last Spring, but my phone rings before I can dial.  
  
_Unknown caller._  
  
"Hello?"  
  
" Veronica....? I didn't know who else to call."  
  
"Logan! Where are you?" My voice quavers, not quite concealing my panic.  
  
"Um...don't know. In a ditch somewhere?"

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 33.

Forty minutes later, I finally locate Logan on a dirt access road for a private airstrip. As he couldn't identify any landmarks, I had to wait while my dad's contact at the cell company triangulated the stolen phone's location.  
  
I pull to a stop in front of him. "Wanna ride little boy? I've got candy."  
  
He flashes a pained smile, drapes his jacket across the passenger seat, and climbs inside.  
  
"Oh, should I have rented a luxury car on the way here? Is your privileged butt too sensitive to touch my seats?"  
  
"A limo would have worked," he says, closing the door, but the sarcasm is half-hearted. "I'm dirty, so..." He gestures at the upholstery.  
  
"Thanks for caring."  
  
"Always." His seat-belt clicks into place and I drive away.  
  
Minutes later, he catches me looking. "What?"  
  
"Only you, Logan." I shake my head and roll my eyes. "I once said nobody is ever actually ' _lying in a ditch somewhere'_, and you just had to go and prove me wrong."  
  
"That's my job. Keeping you humble." He speaks softly, an almost-smile grazing his lips. "So you mentioned candy?"  
  
"I lied," I say. "Can I interest you in some gum instead?"  
  
I hand Logan the paper bag and he peeks inside lifting an eyebrow. "Wow. It's like you anticipated my every need."  
  
"Not every need Buddy, you're on your own with those condoms."  
  
He laughs and makes an _'Aww shucks'_ gesture.  
  
Logan doesn't mention picking up his car, and I don't offer. I drive straight to the Grand, following him up to the suite.  
  
He glances around the living room. "Looks like Duncan isn't home."  
  
"He's probably at Meg's bedside."  
  
He walks through his bedroom to the bathroom, and seems surprised when I follow him in.  
  
"Alright, show me."  
  
He lifts his brow and I roll my eyes. "Show me what they did to you. Shirt off."  
  
"Just...let me take a shower, first."  
  
"I'm not budging until you tell me what they did."  
  
"They didn't do anything. I'm fine."  
  
"You're lying. I saw the tender way you sat. The way you walked. You're injured."  
  
"Veronica..." he whines.  
  
I cross my arms, making myself clear.  
  
Logan exhales like the drama queen he is, and peels his brown shirt over his head. Abrasions cover his chest, sides, and back.  
  
"Like hell they didn't do anything to you." My voice takes on a scary intensity and Logan's eyes widen. I open the medicine cabinet which, unsurprisingly, contains only toiletries. Not even a box of bandaids.  
  
"This wasn't them. It's road rash. From rolling down the embankment."  
  
"Okay. I'll grab some peroxide and ointment from Duncan's bathroom and we'll clean you up."  
  
"Veronica..." he pleads, and I pause on my way out of the room. "You can wait until after I shower."  
  
"But\--"  
  
He cuts me off, stares at the floor. "I wet my pants, okay? I'm humiliated, and I just want to get clean as fast as I can."  
  
I grab him by the wrists, making him look at me. " _What_ did they do  to you? Don't you dare tell me 'nothing'."  
  
He pulls his right hand free. "Um...they knocked me out and threw me in a van."  
  
"Knocked out? Like unconscious?"  
  
"That's the usual definition." He rubs the back of his head.  
  
I reach out, running my fingers over the same spot - where a lump is already forming. My stomach turns and my jaw clenches. "Then what?"  
  
He glances longingly at the shower.  
  
"I'm sorry," I say, speaking more gently. "Take your shower. You can tell me the rest afterward."  
  
I return to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. My hands shake as I call my father.  
  
"Is Logan okay?"  
  
The shower starts up in the bathroom.  
  
"Yeah. He's covered in abrasions from being tossed in a hole and they knocked him out cold. I'm just going to stay here tonight, in case he has a concussion."  
  
"Veronica..." he warns.  
  
"This isn't romantic, Dad. I'm concerned about Logan's health."  
  
"Don't think I'm not aware your boyfriend lives in the same suite."  
  
"Duncan isn't even here. I swear," I say, choosing my words so that I'm not actually lying. If he knew about the breakup, there's no way he would allow me to spend the night with Logan.  
  
Dad gives a belabored sigh. "Okay. Sleep on the couch. Set the alarm on your phone, and wake him every two hours."  
  
I take notes as he fills me in on signs to watch for - vomiting, seizures, slurred speech, numbness in his extremities - promising I'll take Logan to the hospital if he exhibits any of those symptoms.

"I might not be here when you get home in the morning. Ben Lincoln - my friend who helped us find Logan tonight - agreed to head out to the bus crash site with me tomorrow," he says.

"What are you doing out there?"

"He has a test kit - phones from every cell carrier used for validating software - and we're going to determine which ones get reception at that location."

"Pretty clever," I say. "I knew these smarts came from somewhere."

I say goodbye, and hang up.  
  
Duncan's medicine cabinet isn't stocked, either. His laptop is unlocked though, so I Google "road rash", and make a list of needed supplies. Strangely enough, peroxide is a bad idea, as it can interfere with the healing process.  
  
_You learn something new every day._  
  
I root through Logan's dresser, bypassing his pajama pants and grabbing the soft gray drawstring  shorts he slept in during our occasional sleepovers last summer. Not for sentimental reasons or anything, they'll allow me to take care of any potential abrasions on his legs.  
  
Cracking the door an inch, I reach inside, and set the shorts on the counter for him. "Logan?" I call out.  
  
The shower door opens with a popping sound and the water gets louder. "Yes?" He sounds irritated.  
  
"I'm running to the twenty-four hour pharmacy across the street, so take your time in there. And don't use antiseptic soap on your wounds."  
  
"Okay, mom."  
  
Due to my unfamiliarity with the products on the list, my shopping trip takes longer than expected.

The water turns off as I'm returning with my bags of supplies. I lay them out on Logan's nightstand, turn on both lamps, and rotate the dimmer on the overhead light to its brightest setting. Folding back his comforter and flat sheet, I spread out a thick bath towel from Duncan's room.  
  
The door opens and Logan pauses, shielding his eyes. "How many little pests does it take to change every lightbulb in the damn suite?"  
  
"If we're going to keep that pretty skin flawless, I need to see your injuries."  
  
"I'm at your mercy, Florence Marsingale," Logan says, with a weak smile. He's wearing the gray shorts I set out for him, and he rubs at his wet hair with a small towel.  
  
I hand him three Ibuprofen and a bottle of water and he dutifully swallows.  
  
"Do you remember when you got your last Tetanus shot?"  
  
"They gave me one in the hospital, after..."  
  
_After the last time the PCHers attacked you for a murder you didn't commit? After they kicked in your ribs?_  
  
I exhale hard. "Face down, to begin with." I point at his bed.  
  
For once, he skips the sexual innuendo and lays gingerly on the towel, forearms bracing his face.  
  
While his wounds aren't deep, the website mentioned irrigating the abrasions with Shur-clens, so I skip the cotton pads, squirting the liquid directly on his skin. He squirms and wiggles as the solution drips down his sides and into the towel.  
  
"Tell me the rest?" I ask, to distract him. Also, because I'm nosy.  
  
Logan groans. "You're going to make me relive this?"  
  
"Unfortunately, yes." I pat him dry with a lint-free cloth, and set to work dabbing ointment on the more severe wounds.  
  
"They tied me to a chair. Two of them. Both wearing masks."  
  
"According to my dad, the phone you took belonged to Thumper Orozsco. Did you recognize the other guy?"  
  
"Not a clue. One of Weevil's Merry Men."  
  
I open the box of Tegaderm, rip one of the packets, and press the clear dressing on one of the scratches.  
  
"What's that?" Logan asks.  
  
"It'll keep the wound moist, which will aid in healing and prevent scarring." I cover the dressing with a gauze square and four strips of medical tape.  
  
I repeat the process for each of the remaining scrapes on his back, and then check under the legs of his shorts.  
  
"Trying to sneak a peek, Mars?"  
  
"Please. You've mooned me a dozen times over the years." I say. "Not to mention, I tended to be a bit...grabby hands...when we dated."  
  
"Wait, we dated?" Logan asks, deadpan. "You had me convinced I dreamed the entire thing."  
  
"Logan..."  
  
"Although..." he continues, "...I suppose for you, it was a nightmare."  
  
"Not a nightmare at all. More like one of those surreal dreams where you're lost or off-course, and you can't even remember your intended destination. Now turn over."  
  
He rolls over. "I can probably handle this side myself."  
  
"Will you for once in your life let somebody do something for you?  
  
He opens his mouth, closes it, and then gives me a silent nod.  
  
I moisten a cotton pad, tilt his chin to the left and clean a small scratch on his jawline, not bothering with the dressing.  
  
"What happened after you woke?"  
  
"Um...They staged a mock trial. Interrogated me about Felix' murder while Weevs listened on the phone. I told them I didn't know anything."  
  
"And they said, 'Oops. Our mistake. No hard feelings.' and just let you go?"  
  
He's more injured on the front, the abrasions deeper and wider. The biggest wound, a diagonal slash beginning at the right side of his waist, disappears into his shorts. His clingy gray shorts.  
  
_Why didn't I think to set out a pair of underwear for him?_  
  
"It wasn't that simple, Veronica."  
  
"You don't say?" I push at the waistband, but it doesn't budge.  
  
Logan's watching me intently, amused, as if he's sure I'll chicken out at any moment.  
  
_Like hell I will. You don't scare me. Anymore._  
  
" Want me to...?" he begins.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
How would a nurse handle this? I let out a silent breath, arrange my features into something detached and professional, and untie the knot on his drawstring.  
  
Rather than pulling on his waistband, I roll it over. Logan lifts his hips from the mattress, and I continue rolling, averting my eyes and carefully ignoring the trail of hair leading down from his belly button. The V-shaped dips inside his hip bones are harder to ignore, and I wish I had an excuse to trace them with my fingertips.  
Or my tongue.  
  
_Nurse now, lust later, Veronica._  
  
Thankfully, the abrasion ends before the hair thickens, I squeeze the bottle of Shur-clens over the scrape, and Logan tilts  his hips, preventing gravity from soaking his shorts. The liquid pools in his navel and he grimaces.  
  
I saturate the scrapes on his chest, and one on his right thigh.  
  
_Don't look._  
  
"So how did they convince you to talk?" I ask, patting the wounds dry. His stomach is flatter and harder than last summer - which is neither here-nor-there.  
  
Logan sighs, annoyed at this line of questioning. "Aren't I exposed enough right now? Can it wait until you finish?"  
  
Fuck. It must be bad.  
  
"Yeah. Sure." I smile, soft and understanding. _I'm here for you._  
  
The wounds on his chest and leg are dressed and covered. All that remains is the one above his groin.  
  
I squeeze a pea-sized amount of Neosporin on two fingers and gently touch the reddest portion of the wound.  
  
Logan inhales, quick and sharp, and I spare a quick glance at him. He's staring at the ceiling, ribcage rising high and falling deep.  
  
My own chest aches, and the air is thick and syrupy. Fingers trembling, I massage the ointment into his skin.  
  
Something twitches in his shorts, and I won't look. Can't look.  
  
_Something, Veronica?_  
  
I  look.  
  
My cheeks burn, and I busy myself ripping open packets of Tegaderm. Five square sheets of the clear film are required to cover the wound, and securing the gauze without taping over his hair proves challenging.  
  
"Thank you," he says, once I've completed the job.  
  
"Not a problem." I gather up the debris - empty packets, boxes, discarded pieces of tape - taking them out to the garbage. After some creative shifting of toiletries - _how many products does one pretty boy need?_ \- I manage  to squeeze the supplies into the medicine cabinet.  
  
Logan's pulling on a gray tank top when I return. The shorts are restored to their natural position, and the towel is gone.  
  
I toe-off my shoes laying down on the right side of the bed, and watching him.  
  
Logan lifts a small remote, pushes a button, and the hideous fish sculpture above his headboard illuminates, bright red. He cycles through multiple color combinations, settling on a soothing royal blue.  
  
Turning off the remaining lights, he eases himself into bed, curling his arm under his head. "So I guess I'm fine. You can go do..." he gestures - less towards the door than Duncan's bedroom.  
  
"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" I ask, fluffing up my pillow for emphasis.  
  
He sighs, "It's been kind of a crappy night Veronica, so I'm not really up for bickering or whatever."  
  
"No bickering. No whatever." I pretend I'm taking notes. "Got it."  
  
"What do you want?" he whines.  
  
_You. The Kane Scholarship. World Peace. You._  
  
"I'm staying  to make sure you don't have a concussion and die in your sleep, Jackass."  
  
"Oh," he says, contrite. "Thanks."  
  
I give him time to adjust his sheet and get comfortable, and then roll on my side. "They threatened somebody you cared about, right? Duncan? Trina? Kendall?"  
  
Logan scoffs at the last name. "No. They didn't threaten anybody."  
  
"What kind of leverage did they use to make you talk?"  
  
"Leverage?" He lets out an ugly laugh. "Does a gun count as leverage?"  
  
_"They held a gun on you?"_ No, that didn't sound shrill at all.  
  
"Yeah," he whispers.  
  
"It was more than that, wasn't it?"  
  
"You could say that."  
  
I wait him out this time, and a long silence passes before he speaks again.  
  
He stares at the ceiling, eyes wet and glistening in the blue glow of the hideous fish sculpture.  
  
I wiggle closer and squeeze his shoulder. Supportive, without being pushy.  
  
Logan exhales, closing his eyes. "They loaded a bullet. Spun the chamber. Aimed at my hand."  
  
"And pulled the trigger?"  
  
A single nod.  
  
Rage floods my body, and the pounding in my head muffles my hearing.  
  
They fucking tortured him.  
  
Logan senses my mood shift and rolls onto his side. "Hey. I'm okay," he says softly, stroking my arm; gentling me.  
  
I'm not.  
  
"How long did this go on?" I ask through clenched teeth.  
  
"A while. A few times. My knee. My dick - almost."  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"Beg. Scream. Cry. Piss myself." His eyes lift to his forehead and a tear drops onto the bridge of his nose. "Real manly, huh?" He adds with a bitter laugh.  
  
"I don't give a fuck about manliness." I say, vehemently.  
  
I can see the Duncan-joke poised on the tip of his tongue, but a choked sob escapes instead.  
  
_Oh, Logan._  
  
I pull him close, stroking his hair and making soothing noises  as he trembles, silently soaking my shirt.  
  
"Get some sleep," I whisper once he's subsided into sniffles.  
  
"You're really staying?" he sounds like a little boy who's been let down too often.  
  
"Every single second," I lie.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 34.

A door slams and feet pound on concrete. I press my back against the cement block wall and wait.  
  
Footsteps round the corner and I hold my breath.  
  
Closer. Closer. Another second.  
  
To my immediate left, a hand reaches for the power breaker.  
  
I make my move.  
  
Pressing Mr. Sparky into soft flesh, I pull the trigger for two seconds, releasing white light and a three hundred-thousand volts.  
  
Crackle.

Gasp.

Shriek.

Thump.  
  
I flip the breaker and the exterior of the body shop lights up.  
  
Weevil groans and curls into the fetal position. His eyes roll back in his head and he lets out a burst of forced exhales.  
  
"Stay down," I say, once he's recovered enough to focus on me.  
  
"What the fuck, V?" He starts to rise.  
  
"Backup!"  
  
My dog walks out of the shadows with a low, menacing growl.  
  
"Fine. Fine. I'm down." Weevil puts up his hands in submission.  
  
"Backup, sit."  
  
Careful not to antagonize the dog, Weevil shifts into a more comfortable position. "I can guess why you're here."  
  
"Great, then we can skip straight to the threats." I squat down so he can see how serious I am. "If you or your boys harm another hair on Logan's head, I will destroy you. And unlike anyone else you've dealt with, my methods will be precision-focused and long-lasting."  
  
His eyes recognize the truth. "I thought he killed Felix!"  
  
"Well, he didn't."  
  
"Yeah. I know that now," Weevil stares at the ground.  
  
"Well I'm glad it only took six broken ribs, two concussions, seven point five million in property damage, and a little recreational torture to figure it out." I say. "There could've been real consequences or something."  
  
"What do you want me to do?" he yells, frustrated. "If you think I'm going to apologize, you might as well zap me again."  
  
_Go ahead. Tempt me._  
  
"You're going  to do better than apologize." I flash him my shark smile, and stand back up. "You're going to help me clear his name."  
  
"What's in it for me?" Weevil's eyes take on a mercenary gleam.  
  
"Once Logan's charges are dropped, I'm going to find out who really killed Felix."

 

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 35.

After sneaking Backup back into the apartment, I return to the Grand.  
  
Duncan lounges on the couch, watching late night T.V. He glances up, relieved and smiling.

_Probably thinks I changed my mind about the breakup._  
  
"How'd you get  in?" he asks, more curious than annoyed. "I never gave you a card key."  
  
_Nope. You never gave me a key._  
  
"I took Logan's  when I left an hour ago."  
  
His face twists into a sneer. "So what, then? It's his turn again?"  
  
I pause on the verge of opening the bedroom door. "Excuse me?"  
  
He stands, an ugly gleam in his eye. "Isn't that why you're here at..." he checks his watch. "...1:13 AM? I didn't pay you enough attention or something, so now you're using him to hurt me and take away my only friend?"  
  
I exhale. "Wow. You think I'm that petty? Your faith in me is enlightening. Could you possibly know me any less?"  
  
"You did it before." He sulks.  
  
"Did I?" I bare my teeth, eyes tight. "So my dating Logan last year was all about sticking it to you?"  
  
One-shoulder shrug. "Well, you didn't seem too happy about me being with Meg."  
  
"You know what the word is for that, Duncan? Narcissism."  
  
He rolls his eyes.  
  
"This may come as a shock to you, but I dated Logan because I wanted to. Because I liked him. I broke up with him because of his dangerous behavior. You were never a factor back then, and you couldn't be less of a factor now. And If your friendship suffered when I was with him, that's entirely on you. He went above and beyond trying to be sensitive to your feelings."  
  
He tries to speak, but I cut him off. "Logan - your supposed best friend - was knocked unconscious and tortured at gunpoint tonight by the PCHers. They tossed him in ditch like a sack of garbage. So I'm going back into that bedroom, and I'm going to check on him throughout the night, and I don't give a damn how you feel about it."  
  
"I didn't know." Duncan has the decency to look contrite. "Is he okay?"  
  
"Of course you didn't know. You never answer your phone."  
  
"So you two aren't back together?"  
  
"No. I'm helping him out."  
  
He moves forward. "But that's your plan, right? To get back together with him?"

The question triggers something in me and I round on him. "My plan? Singular?"

"Huh?"

"I don't know where you're getting this idea from, but let's pretend you're right for a second. Pretend I want Logan and I 'plan to get him back'. Where do his preferences come in? Shouldn't that be a two-person decision?"  
  
"O...kay."

"He might think I'm too bitchy or fickle or a dozen other things. He certainly thinks I'm a pain in the ass - he reminds me all the time. And I know for a fact he's interested in another girl. So no, I'm not planning to get back together with him."

Duncan rolls his eyes, and holds up both hands in an 'I-surrender' gesture. "Sorry I chose the wrong words. Forget I even asked." He turns around and drops back on the couch, effectively dismissing me.

I storm over, standing between him and the television. "But that's what you did last summer though, right? You decided you wanted me back, and to hell with what anybody else wanted." 

"I don't feel like talking anymore."

"Your entire life, you need only point at something, and it gets handed to you."

"Ohh...here we go. Please Veronica, tell me how rich and entitled I am."

"If the trust fund fits..." I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "You've never had to work for anything, so you never learned to value anything."

"I valued you."

"No. I just had the distinction of being the only toy ever taken away from you. As soon as you saw somebody else playing with it, you wanted it back."

"You know it wasn't like that. I loved you."

"No, you loved possessing me. A cute blonde girlfriend to smile-and-nod and decorate your arm."

Duncan rolls his eyes.

"Except...New Toy wasn't quite the same as Old Toy, was it? You pulled the string on the back, and it no longer told you how wonderful you are. It said new things. Things you didn't want to hear."

"I never sa--"

"And New Toy wasn't as pristine as you remembered, either. Up close, the paint was chipped and scratched and covered with Logan's fingerprints. And you started to wonder why you'd ever set aside Discarded Toy for this."

"Come on, Veronica. I thought our relationship was going great. When did I ever mistreat you?"

"What relationship?"

Duncan scoffs.

"In a real relationship, you would've asked my opinion on any one of a number of situations. The secret visits to the hospital. Moving Logan into the suite, Kendall's statutory-rape playdates. Meg's pregnancy."

"Maybe I didn't want to argue with you."

"Who knows if we would've argued? For all you know, I could've been supportive and understanding, but you didn't give me the chance. You didn't value my opinion, and by extension, you didn't value me."

"How does moving Logan in have anything to do with you?" Duncan asks, entirely missing the point. "He's completely over you. He said it. You're in the rear view."

"Well as long as Logan's feelings weren't inconvenienced." I answer through clenched teeth. "If you cared about me at all you would've asked if it made me uncomfortable having my ex around all the time. You would have made sure I could live with it,  before you extended the invitation."

"It's not like you guys were serious, or in love or anything."

Flames burn through my veins and I force myself not to defend my former position in Logan's life. "You'd have to be blind or willfully ignorant to miss the tension between us. It was an ugly breakup."

"Yet here you are, pulling his ass out of the fire."

"He wouldn't hesitate to do the same for me." _With a stupid gun, probably, but..._ " And with that, I'm done, I'm exhausted, and I'm going to check that Logan isn't seizing or laying in a puddle of vomit."

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 36.

Logan's chest rises and falls, deep and steady.  
  
In the bathroom, I wash off my makeup, pull up my hair, strip down to my tank top, and change into a borrowed pair of shorts, cinching the drawstring enough to keep them from falling off.  
  
Although our breakup is still recent, my confrontation with Duncan seems long overdue. Like a heavy weight lifted from my chest. _I feel...free._  
  
Still, I'm a bit unsettled. I'm not even with Logan romantically, and I'm already driving a wedge between the two boys. And while I'd like to believe he's better off without that kind of conditional brand of friendship, I only have to think back to last summer, and how Duncan's calming influence could've been invaluable.  
  
I need to avoid contact and allow them both to move on with their lives. After I've cleared Logan's name.  
  
"Logan." I climb into bed and jiggle his shoulder.  
  
He's a heavy sleeper, and I shake him several times without any reaction.  
  
Back when we were together, I would've straddled him and kissed him awake. Not an option tonight - even if he wasn't injured.  
  
Two large hands clamp down upon my waist and, with a _whoosh_ , I find myself flat on my back, Logan stretched out on top of me, hips pressing into my thighs.  
  
A whimper escapes my throat, and my nerve endings tingle, hyper-aware of his body, heavy and warm, the clean scent of soap and the minty zing of toothpaste.  
  
"I've got you now," he whispers, eyes locked on my lips.  
  
The air rushes from my lungs, and something flutters deep inside. I lock my knees to keep from pushing up into him.  
  
"Logan?"  
  
He falters, eyes growing wide as the sleep haze clears, and then rolls away, as if burned.  
  
"Oh. My. God." He buries his face in his hands. "I thought you were..."  
  
"Kendall?"  
  
"No!" He scrunches his nose. "I just thought I was still...."  
  
I give him a curt nod and look away.  
  
"So...uh...Can we not mention--"  
  
"Never happened." I cut him off.  
  
_Message received, loud and clear. You're not into me._  
  
It doesn't matter. I'm here for one reason only. "How are you  feeling?"  
  
"A little achy, I suppose."  
  
"No numbness in your limbs? No nausea?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Good. Okay, go back to sleep now."  
  
Logan raises an amused eyebrow. "I forgot what a little tyrant you are."  
  
"Sometimes we all need reminders."  
  
With a wink, he falls dramatically on his back, crossing his arms under his pillow. "Happy?"  
  
_No. 'Satisified' is probably the word you're looking for._  
  
"Yeah, I'll check on you again in two hours." I make myself comfortable on the other pillow, turning on my side, and patting down the blanket between us.  
  
"Veronica?" He rolls onto his side.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I don't know what convinced you I was worth helping, but thank you." His eyes flick away - uncomfortable with discussing his worth \- and then back again, gauging my reaction.  
  
"Pretend for a moment your dog's life was at stake." At his confusion, I clarify. "That's what you said to me that night out by the door. I guess I took it to heart."  
  
"Ah..." The hideous fish sculpture puts out enough light to illuminate the slow grin forming on his face. "Never thought I'd be grateful being compared to a dog."  
  
"Well...now that you mention it, you do exhibit several dog-like qualities."  
  
He rolls his eyes. "Why? Because I bury my bone in inappropriate places?"  
  
"You said it. But that's not where I was going. Other than the puppy eyes and the bassett hound forehead, you're loyal and trusting. You'll follow around anyone who shows you even the slightest bit of affection, and you're prone to rolling around in shit."  
  
"You forgot to mention the way I lick my favorite people."  
  
I laugh, softly. _Prove it._  
  
His gaze flicks  to my breasts and quickly away.

He fiddles with the edge of his blanket. "You know, you're a bit like a dog too, Veronica."  
  
"A bloodhound who sniffs out clues?" I ask, lifting up on my elbow. "A pit bull who can't be shaken loose?"  
  
His grin stretches wide. "Actually, I was referring to your leg-humping habit."  
  
I gasp. "You are SO dead!"  
  
I playfully try to smack his arm, but he catches my hand, locking our fingers together.  
  
"There you go, assaulting an injured man. You should be ashamed of yourself."  
  
"I fixed you," I say, pushing back against his hand, "I can break you again."  
  
"Would you do that to your faithful dog?" His eyes crinkle. "Never mind, of course you would."  
  
We spend a minute grappling and giggling. The combined strength of both my hands can't budge his one, and his smug face is just asking to be punched.  
  
"Give up?"  
  
"Not even close." I roll up on my knees, using my body weight and gravity to wrestle his arm down to the bed.  
  
His knuckles are mere centimeters from the mattress, when he hisses between his teeth. "Fuck!"  
  
I release his hand, shifting into nurse mode. "Where does it hurt? Are you bleeding?" I push up the hem of his shirt, searching for blood.  
  
His belly shakes with laughter."You are so gullible."  
  
Sinking back on my heels, I shake my head. "Do you know what happens to naughty dogs?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Logan begins, "But I'm hoping it involves a rolled-up newspaper and some light spanking."  
  
I roll my eyes, preparing a response, and then rejecting it. He would only volley back with a 'helpful' suggestion to rub his nose in anything I wanted.  
  
"So what happens to good dogs?" Logan asks. "So I know if behaving is worth it."  
  
"Belly scratches." I tickle my fingernails over the bare skin revealed between his tee shirt and shorts, and he shakes his right leg like Backup does when I hit that just-right spot.  
  
I don't even notice his fingers on my left wrist until they lock down. He surges up, licks a wet stripe from jaw to my temple, and falls back down, laughing.  
  
Despite the urge to squirm, I don't wipe my face. Instead, I play bored, crawling back to my pillow, smoothing out the sheet, and rolling back to face him. "Meh. Backup does it better. He likes to sneak up while I'm yawning."  
  
"Yawn." He commands, bobbing his eyebrows with a hint of a nod. Challenging.  
  
"Nope. I'm not going to yawn. I'm not even going to think about yawning, or imagine yawning."  
  
As expected, he yawns himself, and I laugh.  
  
I've kissed Logan hundreds of times. I know how it goes. The intensity that sweeps over him, the hand that lifts to stroke my face. The little sigh before he leans in.  
  
This, is NOT that. His eyes twinkle with merriment, not lust. This is a game. Fun. The banter he lives for and thrives on.  
  
I could call his bluff right now - yawn with gusto - and he would not deliver on the challenge.  
  
Face it, Veronica. He's over you.  
  
Despite all the innuendo, I'm the buddy now. The pal. The sparring partner. Why would he want me when he has Kendall, the Laker Girl, or "legs up to the sky" Hannah. Whoever that is.  
  
He's still watching. Amused.  
  
"Oh quit looking at me," I say testily, "I'm not going to slip up and..."  
  
"Yawn?"  
  
The word triggers a reflex, and his lips stretch into a gleeful smile as he watches me struggle to suppress the yawn.  
  
Something clatters to the floor out in the living room.  
  
Logan's eyes leap to the door. He quickly rolls away - putting distance between us - folds his hands on his stomach and stares at the ceiling. "We should get some sleep."  
  
"Yes. Definitely." I shift onto my back as well, and my body feels heavy, all the lightness from a minute ago drifting away.  
  
I yawn. He closes his eyes.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 37.

The _click_ of an opening door wakes me.  
  
Logan's voice, quiet and exhausted. "Hey man, you on your way out?" He's a lean shadow outlined in his bedroom doorway.  
  
"Yeah, brunch with the 'rents in twenty minutes." Duncan answers.  
  
"Before you go, I need to tell you something, and I don't want you flipping out and taking a shovel to our suite, or anything."  
  
"You mean that Veronica's sleeping in your room? I already knew. We talked last night."  
  
"Oh..." Logan exhales a nervous laugh. "Good. I worried you might get the wrong idea. She's only here to play nurse."  
  
Duncan's voice betrays no hint of last night's bitterness. "She told me what they did to you. That blows, man."  
  
"Well, it wasn't a fun day at Magic Mountain." Logan shifts, leaning on the door jam and crossing his arms over his chest. "So, are you gonna have my back this time? I made a promise to Weevil, I intend to keep."  
  
_Yeah, that's not going to happen._ I sit up in bed. " _Like hell_ you will."  
  
Duncan snickers. "...And that's my cue. You're on your own, man."  
  
The suite door closes, and Logan turns, an argument forming on his lips.  
  
I lift my hand, holding him off. "I had a conversation with Weevil last night - after you fell asleep the first time - and we came to a deal."  
  
"Dammit, Veronica!" He storms into the bathroom. The sink turns on, and off again. A muffled thump echoes, followed by a pained grunt.  
  
He returns, water droplets still clinging to his scowling face, and sits, pulling one knee into his chest.  
  
"Logan..."  
  
"No." He raises his hand. "Don't even say it."  
  
"Just let me--"  
  
"I don't give a..." He presses his face into his hand, as if keeping himself from saying something stupid. Inhales. Stares  entreatingly at the ceiling. Exhales.  
  
I do an admirable job containing my laughter in the face of his dramatics.  
  
Logan turns an agonized gaze back on me. "I am begging you, Veronica. Do not ask this from me. If I don't make him answer for what he did, it's like issuing an engraved invitation to do it again. I might as well load the chamber and hand him the gun next time."  
  
I turn this statement over in my head. Not so much his argument (although I empathize with his position) as the fact that he's willing to concede - miserably \- if I so insist.  
  
"Logan..." I crawl up towards the headboard so I can face him, but he stubbornly stares at some point over my head.  
  
"Logan!" I repeat, sitting back on my heels.  
  
He huffs.  
  
"Look at me, you big pouty baby."  
  
His lips twitch. "What do you want? You came through for me last night, so I'm trying very hard to stay calm right now."  
  
His hand is on the bed, and I pick it up, sandwiching it between my own. "I forgot to mention something. That conversation with Weevil? It was at the end of my taser?"  
  
Now he looks at me.  
  
"Or more specifically, I talked, he twitched."  
  
Logan's face struggles to settle on an emotion - shock, glee, awe.  
  
"There's nothing quite so satisfying as leaving you speechless," I say.  
  
"Well then, Duncan must be a crappy lay." He pauses, squeezes his eyes closed and holds up his hand in an apologetic gesture. "Sorry. Habit. So you really tasered Weevil? I thought you were cool with him."  
  
"Oh, we're still favor-trading friends," I say. "But he hurt you. He needed to pay."  
  
Logan swallows, and he's not looking at me like a buddy anymore.  
  
He lifts his hands - and my heart races, anticipating being pulled into his arms, touched, squeezed - but they only hover, momentarily, and drop back to his sides.  
  
Instead, he leans forward, examining his big toe, where I can see blood under a loose flap of skin.  
  
"What happened?" I ask.  
  
"I kicked the toilet," he mutters, embarrassed.  
  
"Would you be offended if I called you an idiot?"  
  
"Nah, seems like an accurate description."  
  
I stand. "Let me go grab the medical supplies. We'll get you patched up. Again. And then I'll drive you to your car."  
  
"Yeah." Logan's still staring at me. "I guess you should."  
  
I squeeze his hand. "Your war is over."  
  
He swallows and nods.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will surprise nobody, but I lied again. I promised you one more chapter. My outline and plotting and first draft accounted for one more chapter.  
> 15K words later, and guess what? This is NOT the last chapter. In fact, only 20% of this chapter was part of the original plan. The other 80%, was just me following my whims in an attempt to close up various loose ends (or just amusing myself with the silly)  
> The scenes that were originally supposed to be Chapter Three, will now become (the final) Chapter Four and the conclusion, and should be posted sooner, rather than later. 
> 
> As always, use rot13.com to decode messages.

# 36.

Mars Investigations is about as clean as it’s going to get – dusted and polished, swept and mopped. I’ve scraped off the sticky residue from some long-forgotten takeout container in the mini-fridge. And I finally got around to evicting Gary, the two-inch beetle who kicked the bucket in Dad’s overhead light fixture six months ago. Homework is long completed and all paperwork has been filed.

  
Still, no sign of my father, and I’m starting to worry. Did something go wrong on his field trip out to the bus crash site?

I check in with Logan, not bothering to invent a pretext. I feel like we turned a corner last night. Like we’re almost – dare-I-say? – friends now.

 

**Veronica Mars 12:31 PM**  
Ubj ner lbh srryvat? Nal oyrrqvat be fjryyvat? Arrq nalguvat sebz zr?

 

**Logan Echolls 12:33 PM**  
Abj gung lbh zragvba vg Syberapr, ubj fbba jvyy lbh or urer gb tvir zr zl fcbatr ongu?

 

 _Oh, how I wish._ I’ve spent way too much time today indulging myself in memories of last night. His body in those clingy jersey shorts. The V-shaped dips around his hips. The smooth texture of his skin under my fingertips as I tended to his wounds. It would serve him right if I took him at his word and showed up with a loofah.

Unfortunately, that’s not my particular brand of bold. And even if it was, he hadn’t seemed too eager to horn-in on his best friend’s ex.

 

**Veronica Mars 12:35 PM**  
Fbzrjurer nebhaq arire?

 

**Logan Echolls 12:37 PM**  
Ohooyr ongu?

  

**Veronica Mars 12:38 PM**  
Abcr

 

**Logan Echolls 12:41 PM**  
Fgrnz ongu? V’yy oevat gur fgrnz

 

**Veronica Mars 12:42 PM**  
Avpr gel.

 

**Logan Echolls 12:44 PM**  
Syrn ongu naq n ghzzl eho?

 

**Veronica Mars 12:45 PM**  
Qravrq. Onpx gb gur qbt ubhfr sbe lbh.

  

**Logan Echolls 12:45 PM**  
Jbbs!

 

I’m chuckling when the office door opens with a faint whine. Dad enters, followed by my favorite ambulance chaser.

"Cliffy! How's tricks?"

“Interesting choice of words.” Cliff takes a seat on the corner of my desk, shoulders slumped and his expression proving even the shameless can occasionally experience minor regret.

"Don't answer that." Dad cuts him off before he can speak. "Or at least leave out the sordid details."

"But I like sordid." I poke out my bottom lip.

"Veronica..." Dad sighs.

Cliff drops his head slightly, using the thumb and middle finger of one hand to rub circles on his temple.

“Wait. Let me guess.” I give the air an exaggerated sniff. "Would this sordid story have anything to do with hookers?”

Cliff holds up one finger without raising his head. “They prefer the term, sex workers. And what led you to that conclusion?”

“Simple. Your suit smells like a brothel. Old school _Tabu_ , if my highly-sensitive nose is correct.”

“Her name was Daphne...” Cliff lifts his ugly geometric tie to his nose, inhales with a wistful little smile. “I thought she was a scantily-dressed gynecologist, but alas…” He sighs.

Hanging his jacket on the coat rack, Dad fills me in. " I had to liberate Cliff at the Neptune Grand after the young lady stole his briefcase."

“Liberate?”

Cliff rubs at his wrists, wincing.

“Eww.” I scrunch my nose. “Forget I asked.”

“She registered with a fake name and credit card, but…” Dad holds up a VHS tape. “I have the security footage from the hotel lobby and elevator, and Lamb recognized her as somebody he’s picked up for solicitation on multiple occasions.”

“So…a hooker,” I walk around the desk and pat Cliff on the back. “Cheer up, pal. It could be worse. She could’ve collected in advance.”

Cliff groans and hangs his head.

“Then again, why didn’t she?”

He slides his eyes to the left. “Because…she was pretending to be a gynecologist?”

“Right. But she makes a living as a sex worker. If you didn’t pay her, then somebody else must have. What’s in the briefcase?”

"Nothing worth stealing.”

Dad, drops his own attaché on my desk, pops the locks, and hands me a yellow steno pad with a list.

**KNOWN CONTENTS OF CLIFF MCCORMICK’S BRIEFCASE**

  * Address book – personal and clients
  * August 2005 issue of Elle Magazine (pregnant Britney Spears on cover)
  * Keys 
    * Home
    * Office
    * Storage locker
  * Case Files 
    * Bradley Tuell – drunken assault
    * Glenda Curtin – public nudity
    * Lori Jeffries – fraud
    * Raul Boulanger – divorce
    * Logan Echolls - murder



 

I stiffen. "Logan's murder case?"

Cliff shrugs off his jacket, draping it over his arm. "If the perpetrators are aiming to sabotage the Echolls case, the joke’s on them. Everything in that file was already public record, and the originals are back in my office – where the locks are being changed as we speak. Also, it won’t come as any big surprise that Logan’s doing a bang-up job at sabotaging it on his own. I’ll be lucky if I can find any character witnesses.”

_Fuck! I need to clear his name immediately._

“What do they want with Logan?” I walk to the kitchen doorway, back again. To the kitchen and back. “It’s the Fitzpatricks, I presume. Since Weevil Navarro now believes in Logan’s innocence.”

Cliff raises a skeptical brow. “Since when?”

Since my little visit to his auto shop last night, when dad thought I was at the penthouse watching over Logan. “I talked to him this morning. We’re on the same page.” Technically, it was after midnight, so…

“Hold up.” Dad drops a hand on my shoulder. “How do the Fitzpatricks tie into this?”

“According to Mr. Echolls, the false bridge witness was officially reprimanded for an off-the-record pool table operation at the River Stix.” Cliff answers, aiming a too-knowing glance my way. “But I can assure you, there’s nothing of interest to the Fitzpatricks in that case file.”

Dad shakes his head, releases me. “It doesn’t feel right. If anything, I’d wager the key to the Echolls’ storage locker was the real target. With Aaron’s trial coming up, fans and murder junkies alike will be scrambling for souvenirs and memorabilia.”

Echolls storage locker? The keys?

“That’s it!” I grab Cliff’s arm. “Do you have the inventory of the storage locker’s contents?”

“No, but if I did,” Cliff begins carefully, “That would fall under attorney/client privilege.”

I wave him off. “Logan has no privilege from me.” I circle back around my desk, ignoring Dad’s scowl, and jab the speaker button on the office phone, dialing his number by heart.

“Wow, she calls instead of texting. Must be important.” Logan’s voice projects through the phone. “Change your mind about that sponge bath? Cause I—”

I cut him off. “Keep dreaming. And while you’re at it, say hello to my dad and Cliff. You’re on speaker phone.”

A moment’s pause.

“Afternoon, gentlemen. Is Veronica volunteering YOU for my sponge bath? Cause you should know, I require L’Occitane Almond Shower Oil, and bamboo muslin wash cloths. My skin is far too sophisticated for bargain brands.”

Dad takes a seat on the office couch, bemused, but trying his best to hide it. “Not today, Logan. Sorry to disappoint.”

“And you wonder why you’re so unpopular,” Cliff mutters.

“Forget the bath, Logan,” I say, before he escalates the sarcasm. “We have a problem.”

“Well, that’s a given. You wouldn’t have called me, otherwise.”

 _Ouch._ Back in the good old days – those idyllic weeks before Tad Wilson named Logan as his GHB supplier – we’d whisper in the dark for hours, until sleep took us. Has it been that long?

“This is important,” I say. “I need to know if there’s an inventory of your family’s storage locker?”

“That’s random,” he says. “I guess?”

Cliff interrupts, “Before we go any further, I have to remind you that attorney/client privilege does not extend to Veronica or Keith. Legally, they can repeat anything overheard in this room.”

“Fine,” Logan sighs, “But when you sell the tabloids the sordid details of my shower habits, switch the almond oil to Jack Black, or Old Spice, maybe. Something in a dark, manly bottle.”

“Why stop there?” I ask. “We can just say you bathe in liquid testosterone.”

“Acceptable.”

Cliff waits us out, checks his watch. “If you two are done flirting, was that a ‘yes’ on speaking in front of Veronica and Keith?”

“Yeah, sure. I don’t care what they hear. I trust Veronica. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” I bristle. “Falsely accuse a guy of murder one time, and…”

Cliff cuts in. “The storage locker, Logan. Do you have an inventory?”

“It sounds familiar, but I’d have to check with the lawyer that handled my emancipation. Why?”

I lower back into my desk chair. “Somebody hired an escort to steal Cliff’s briefcase.”

Logan chuckles. “I hope he at least got his happy ending first. This affects me, how?”

Cliff’s head rolls back on his neck, eyes circling up to the ceiling.

“It matters, because it’s likely their objective was to get the key to your storage locker.” I doodle a heart on my desk blotter. “Remember our discussion the day Lamb locked you in a cell with your father?”

Dad looks up, surprised, then shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

Logan takes several seconds to think. “You think my dad’s behind this. Like it’s part of his plan to frame Duncan for Lilly’s murder?”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“Wait a minute,” Dad interrupts. “Can somebody fill me in?”

I doodle more hearts while Logan recounts the jail cell conversation, and Aaron’s insistence that he’d come across Duncan standing over Lilly’s body and raving like a lunatic.

When he finishes, Dad sits back, crosses a foot over his knee. “Logan, do you think you could repeat that story for the D.A.?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever it takes to keep Aaron behind bars.”

“Okay, I have a plan,” I say. “Logan, call your other lawyer when we hang up, and have him fax that document to us. Then, swing by our office and drop off your copy of the key. Dad and Cliff can head over to the locker and compare the existing inventory to the current contents – make sure nothing’s been stolen already. Cliff, you’re still a notary public, right?”

“In good standing.”

“Great, make sure to notarize the finalized list. While you’re there, Dad can install some hidden cameras.”

“Veronica…” Dad begins.

“Relax! Logan will pay your usual fee. I’ll even draw up a contract, if it eases your mind.” I stare at my father, entreating him not to object.

He sighs his assent, and slouches back on the couch.

“Um…Not that I have any problem supporting the local private dick…” Logan begins, and that wasn’t pointed at all. “But wouldn’t it be a whole lot easier just to change the locks?”

“Easy? Sure. But Aaron’s people aren’t going to give up on their scheme to frame Duncan. They’ll just move on to plan B.”

“She’s right,” Dad stands, approaches the desk, and leans closer to the phone, pressing his palms to the wood surface. “This is better. Let them think they’ve won, and they’ll get complacent. We’ll bide our time, and when it counts, we’ll produce the video footage, proving their evidence is manufactured.”

Logan takes a few moments to think it over. “Fine. We’ll do it your way, but I’m coming with you.”

Dad sighs. “Logan…”

“Look. It’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re the last honest man in Neptune, as Veronica’s so fond of telling me.” His voice loses its hard edge, becomes vulnerable. “But…my house burned down. And if there’s anything left of my mom in this world, it’s in that locker. I can’t risk it being stolen.”

Sympathy creeps into Dad’s expression. “Fair enough. Have your lawyer fax the inventory, and then we’ll see you when you get here.” He pushes the button, disconnecting the call.

After texting Logan the office fax number, I set to work filling out a contract.

Cliff moves to one of the filing cabinets on the right-hand wall, opens the third drawer down, snagging a pair of rocks glasses and the bottle of scotch Dad keeps hidden behind the ‘S’ files. He pours two cups, hands one to my father, and takes a seat in the visitor’s chair opposite my desk.

I enter the “Friends and Family” rate on the contract, despite my earlier assurances. It’s only fair, considering I brought the case to Logan, and it was only necessary due to Cliff’s poor judgement.

The fax machine screeches. I give it a minute to print, then roll my chair to the corner, retrieving the printouts, and bringing them back to my desk, where I verify the page count versus the cover sheet, before handing them over to Cliff.

“While we’re waiting, did you find any clues out at the bus crash site?” I ask.

Dad sips his scotch, then sets down the glass on my desktop, using a memo pad for a coaster. “Actually, we did find something. This is big, Veronica.”

“Good-clue big? Or cracking-the-case-wide-open big?”

He scrunches up the right side of his face and rotates his hand in a ‘that remains to be seen’ gesture. “We drew a perimeter of about a quarter-mile before and after the site of the bus crash.”

“And?”

“Only NEXTEL phones get coverage on that stretch of road. We were able to rule out every other phone carrier.”

“Could it have been the phones you were using?”

“No, my buddy does this for a living. He brought multiples. The killer could only have been carrying a NEXTEL.”

“Well, that excludes me. And Duncan, I suppose.” I stand, and walk into the kitchen, returning with a can of Skist. “Who has NEXTEL, anyway? Won’t that be like finding a needle in a haystack?”

“Not at all.” Dad says. “Twelve phones pinged that cell tower within the ten minutes before and after the crash. Of them, we can rule out the victim, Rhonda Lambert and Jerry Sacks.”

“And what of the ten remaining?” I sit, wedging my fingertip under the can’s tab, and prying it open.

He grins. “I’m expecting a call tomorrow.”

Cliff stands, adjusts the pleats in his trousers. “Excuse me, while I use the little boy’s room.”

Dad waits until he’s out of earshot. “Is there something you want to tell me, Veronica?”

Alarm bells go off in my head. What does he think he knows?

“Fine you’ve caught me.” I recline back in my chair, lace my fingers together on my stomach. “I ate the last Hot Pocket. But in my defense, I was famished, and that chicken/broccoli/cheddar was just calling my name.”

“Veronica.” He gives me the look. “My friend on the Neptune Grand security team tells me you stopped visiting Duncan weeks ago.”

“And this is a problem, how? Don’t pretend you’ve ever liked him.”

“It’s a problem because you neglected to tell me you two were broken up last night when you were asking to spend the night in the suite with Logan.”

“Hey, I never lied. I just didn’t correct your assumption. I knew you wouldn’t let me stay.”

“Are you positive you never lied?” Dad slides a hip up onto the desk. “Because when I showed the lobby footage to Lamb, he took great joy in pointing out my teenaged daughter, sneaking out of the hotel and then returning later.”

“Crap. Okay, I did leave after Logan fell asleep, but only for a little while.”

“Thirty-five minutes, according to the footage. Where’d you go?”

“To see Weevil.”

Dad raises his voice. “Alone? Are you crazy?”

“He went too far. I couldn’t let him get away with what he did to Logan!” I yell back, then, chastened, I modulate my tone. “And I took Backup with me. I picked him up and dropped him off when I was done.”

“You’re a teenage girl, Veronica! When will you ever learn?” Dad runs a weary hand over his face. “So, what’s going on with Logan? Are you two back together?”

I meet his eyes. “No. And that’s the truth.”

“But you want to be.”

“Logan and I are friends. Nothing more.” I cross my arms over my chest. Daring him to suggest otherwise.

“If you’re just friends, why did you doodle his name inside a dozen hearts?” Dad sweeps a hand over my desk blotter.

I look down. Well, shit. My blotter looks like the slightly more adult version of a Trapper Keeper.

_And Logan’s on his way here._

I quickly rip off the top calendar sheet, crumple it, and toss it in the garbage.

“Veronica?” Dad’s voice is gentle.

I lift my eyes to his. “Fine. I do care about Logan. I care about him very much.”

“Honey, he hurt you. I’ll never forget coming home to find him screaming at you. And I don’t ever want to witness something like that again.”

“Well then you’ll be happy to know my feelings are unrequited. If anything became obvious last night, it’s that he thinks of me like a sister.” I hold off his response with my hand. “As for last summer, I never wanted to end things with him. I just wanted him to stop being a reckless idiot. He freaked out before I could give him my ultimatum.”

“That should tell you everything,” Dad says. “Any guy who loses control while you’re having a discussion—”

I cut him off. “Don’t. He’s not ‘any guy’. He’s been neglected by one parent, and violently abused by the other. His first love was murdered, his mother committed suicide, and his dad was revealed to be a murderer. Then, after being brutally attacked by seven gang members, resulting in multiple broken ribs, he was treated as the suspect instead of the victim.” I pause to take an overdue breath. “Oh, and last night, he was tied up and tortured via Russian Roulette.”

Dad rubs his temples as if he has a migraine. “And the lesson to be learned, Veronica, is that violence follows this kid everywhere he goes.”

There’s a lot I could say right now. Like how every ounce of goodness in Logan was self-trained, because all his parents cared about was fame and public image. But what’s the point? Dad’s already made up his mind.

“If you ask me, Logan is one positive role model away from becoming a genuinely good man. Hopefully, he’ll recognize what _positive_ looks like when he sees it.” I break eye contact, disappointed by Dad’s inflexibility, spend a moment gathering the loose papers on my desktop into a neat stack, before looking back up. “This discussion is pointless, anyway. He’s not an option for me, so I’m asking you, as a favor, not to waste your time with lectures, veiled threats, or poison when he gets here. Unless you’re actually hoping to humiliate me.”

“Oh honey. I thought you knew better.” Dad’s lips twitch, amused, and he ruffles the top of my hair like I’m nine. “Poison is a woman’s weapon.”

I heave an exhausted sigh. “Dad…”

His shoulders slump in acceptance, or more likely, resignation. “Fine, since you asked so nicely, I’ll take it easy on Logan.”

“Did somebody say my name?” Logan flounces through the open doorway.

His brows are lifted, because the entire world is here for his entertainment, but his shirt sleeves are pulled low, covering his knuckles. A sure sign he’s more nervous than he’s pretending to be.

My heartstrings tug, and there’s nothing I can do to make it better.

_I need to exonerate him immediately._

# 37.

_I won’t be able to exonerate Logan immediately._

_Dammit!_

 

**Veronica Mars 10:02 AM**  
Fb, V xabj V cebzvfrq gb pyrne lbhe anzr, ohg yvsr unf bgure cynaf sbe zr. Tvir zr n jrrx be fb?

  

**Logan Echolls 10:04 PM**  
Pyrne zl anzr, naq V’yy tvir lbh nalguvat lbh nfx sbe. (cyrnfr nfx sbe fbzrguvat qvegl)

 

My intentions are honorable, my plan is solid, but time is a luxury I can’t afford.

It begins with Vice Principal Clemmons. You remember him, right? Tall, droll, sees a lot more than he lets on.

Well let’s just say, he’s letting on now. In a big way. In a call-me-out-of-class-to-give-me-five-days-of-after-school-detention sort of way.

I’m a private investigator. Why wouldn’t I possess keys capable of opening his filing cabinet and office door? They’re tools of the trade. As a hypothetical, let’s say I have used said keys to gain access to his office and files. That would have been months ago, and with zero evidence left behind. Hypothetically.

No, old Van C is up to something sketchy, and I intend to find out what it is.

As if that wasn’t enough to sink my Cheerios…

“Veronica! There you are!” Gia catches up to me in the hallway.

“Here I am!” I force a smile. Not that I don’t enjoy Gia, I’m just in no mood for her particular brand of enthusiasm right now.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She’s carrying a large plastic-handled contraption that looks suspiciously like a baby’s car seat. It’s covered with a pink throw, two shades brighter than her shirt, and as I’m puzzling-out the implications, a mewling sound comes from within.

“Gia! Is that what I think it is?” Grabbing her arm, I pull her into my bathroom office.

“Depends on what you’re thinking.” She hoists the carrier up on the bathroom sink.

“I’m thinking you snuck a puppy into school under a blanket.”

“No, silly, I’m allergic to dogs. Except for Bichon Frises and Portuguese Water Dogs.” Gia shakes her head, and peels back the cover. “Meet our daughter, Veronica.”

_“Say what?”_

I stare open-mouthed, at the creepy, life-sized baby doll.

“It’s called ‘Baby Think It Over’. Ms. Hauser passed them out after you were called to the office. That’s why I was looking for you.” Gia fishes through her tote, and hands me a glossy instructional folder. “Shelly and Duncan were already coupled-up when I volunteered to be your partner. Don’t worry though, I’m sure he only accepted so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings, or something.”

“Or something.”

“Anyway, I think it’s cool that we get to be some kind of progressive, two-mother family. Did you know that same-sex adoption has nearly doubled since 2000? My cousin Jen, and her partner, Jenny, are trying to adopt a baby from Russia. Or was it Congo? I can’t remember.” She pauses, face screwed up in thought. “Or should we say we had some kind of in vitro thing done? Like my egg and your…”

“Sperm?” I suggest. “I’ve been accused of being butch, but…”

Gia stares, mentally translating my words, then laughs. “You’re so funny, Veronica.”

“That’s me, a regular comedian.” I check my watch. “A comedian who’s running late. Come on, Gia, talk while we walk.”

She follows me out of the bathroom. “Anyway, I was thinking I could keep her today, Wednesday, and Friday, which would leave you—”

“Tuesday and Thursday?”

So, if I want to clear Logan, I’ll now have to work around detention, my shifts at The Hut, a fussy animatronic baby, and Weevil’s schedule at the body shop.

Speaking of Logan, ahead of us, he stands at his locker, exchanging one text book for another.

I need to ask him how last night’s field trip with my father and Cliff went. When Dad stopped by my room to say goodnight, all I could get out of him was a cryptic, _‘if Logan ever does become ‘an option’ for you again, I suppose I’d be willing to give him a chance before throwing him out of the apartment.'_ He’d refused to elaborate further.

I turn back to Gia, but before I can make my apologies, Dick zips past, wearing his blue-suited robot baby around his neck like a boa. The feather variety, unfortunately, not the constrictor. “Yo! Logan! Check out my Bro Bot!”

Gia drops her voice to a whisper. “Nobody wanted to be paired with Dick, so he’s a single dad.”

“Don’t feel too bad for him. I’m sure he’ll follow in the family tradition and find some hot middle schooler to help him raise the brat.”

Gia giggles. “So, I was thinking, we could get together after school, to choose a name.”

“Can’t. I have detention. You really want to name it?”

“Of course. We can’t just call it Baby.”

Logan and Dick peel away from the locker, moving off toward their next class. The blue baby stares back at us, over Dick’s shoulder, like something out of a Stephen King novel.

_Note to self: check if these things were manufactured in China or Derry, Maine._

“Personally, I’d go with something like Hell Machine or Soul Stealer, but you can go ahead and name it, Gia. Whatever you decide is fine.”

“You’re so sweet, Veronica.” She says. “I already have a list of my top three.”

She clearly wants me to ask. “Give it to me.”

“Okay, well my top two are Chloe and Jessica. But I kinda like Jane, too. After my grandmother.”

“With a name like Jane, she’s just asking to be called Plain by the other kids on the playground.” I shoot her an apologetic look. “As for Chloe, have you ever met one that wasn’t an unapologetic bitch?”

“Both solid points, Veronica,” Gia says, not offended in the least. “Jessica, it is. Would you like to choose the middle name?”

“Nope, all yours.”

“Okay, well I’ll choose…Joan,” she says, “Jessica Joan Mars-Goodman.”

“Oh.” I say. “We’re hyphenating, I see.”

“Is that a problem?” She looks stricken. “As far as I’m concerned, love is love. But if it makes you, uncomfortable…”

“Not at all, Gia,” I reassure her with a pat on the shoulder. “If I ever do decide to become a lesbian, it’s all you, girl.”

Ahead, Logan screeches to a halt and turns around, while Gia smiles widely. “Thank you, Veronica. That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Did I hear what I think I just heard?” Logan asks.

_Ugh. Men._

I roll my eyes, no longer eager to talk to him. “Go to class, Logan.”

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 38.

I take my time parking my car and gathering my possessions. I’m supposed to meet Gia in ten minutes to retrieve the robo brat, but I have other things on my mind.

I arrived for yesterday’s detention, prepared to think of it as an extra study hall.

Clemmons had other things in mind. Like shutting me in the dusty, mildew-scented cold storage room. Because there’s nothing a part-time receptionist loves more than unpaid filing work. Seems our school janitor had a little mishap with the dolly, leaving me to restore the mixed-up files of Neptune High School.

When I came across the LIANNE REYNOLDS file, I thought it might be fun to see what kind of person my mother was before meeting my father.

A mean girl, apparently. One who was suspended (along with my Health teacher) for spreading salacious rumors about another student.

Deborah Hauser makes sense as a school gossip – it’s hard to imagine her ever being anything other than the angry, bitter woman she is now – but the (sober) Lianne Mars of my childhood radiated warmth and affection. She taught me to be kind to other children, no matter how they looked or where they came from.

_Do high school bullies reform?_

Dumb question. I only have to look at Logan for my answer. And if his recent warmth is enough to render his former behavior forgivable, why does Lianne’s suspension bother me so much?

I catch up to Ms. Hauser in the parking lot on the way in, but it’s a pointless conversation. She’s outgrown her gossiping ways and refuses to elaborate on their long-ago infraction.

Vice Principal Clemmons’ office is my next visit on the ‘Clear Lianne’s Name’ tour, and while he seems fixated on stopping me from investigating – has that ever worked before? – he does provide me with two more names. I’ll have to catch up with them later.

Gia waits at my locker, the infant carrier at her feet. “Hey, Veronica.”

I’m not very religious, but a quick glance at our robot spawn makes me want to cross myself. _Or find religion._

My “wife” apparently, went shopping. A rhinestone and lace headband now encircles the baby’s head. The plain pajamas have been replaced by a pink Bo Peep-esque dress with golden embroidery. Layers of tulle lifts the skirt, and the puffy sleeves are cuffed in gold. White lacy socks cover the tiny feet.

“Morning, Gia. JonBenet.”

“Close, but it’s Jessica Joan,” she corrects. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to the name. Look, I packed a diaper bag to hold all the baby supplies.” She holds up a quilted Lilly Pulitzer type zipper tote with a pink print.

Please let there be a change of clothing in that bag.

“Thanks, Gia. I’ll take good care of it.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what you think of Jessica’s new outfit?”

“Yeah, of course.” I take another long look, and I swear the baby’s painted eyes are screaming for help. “It’s very…um…sophisticated.”

Gia bounces on her toes, excitedly clapping her hands. “I’m so relieved that you like it! I was a little nervous. So anyway, if she starts crying, there’s a bottle and diapers in the bag. If that doesn’t work, try rocking her. It’s all spelled out in the instructions.”

“Sure thing, Gia. I guess I’ll see you in Health class.”

I pray nobody sees me on my way to first period, but wouldn’t you know it, Logan appears on my left side. “Hmm…Lolita look? Bold choice for an infant, but I’m sure the pedophiles will love it.”

I cut my eyes his way. “I will murder you in your sleep.”

He chuckles, as Dick slides up on my right. “Whoa. You guys are banging again?”

I sigh. “We are not, nor were we _ever_ banging, Dick.”

“Well you should probably start, if you want to commit sleepicide.” He scrunches his nose and makes a twisty motion with his fingers. “Just makes the whole _logistics_ thing easier.”

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

“Every. Single. Year.” Ms. Hauser gives me a nauseated head shake, as we converge at the Health class doorway. “You kids have more disposable income than sense.”

_Hello! Working two jobs. Nothing disposable about my income._

She heads into the room, not giving me the opportunity to shift blame for the sad appearance of my animatronic baby.

While Gia’s clothing selection was certainly the most frou frou, she’s not the only classmate who went a bit overboard on the infantwear. A quick glance reveals babies in tiny Ed Hardy shirts, wide-legged skater jeans, itty-bitty Air Jordan’s, and at least one pair of Timberlands.

Currently, at least four baby bots are crying, while frazzled students desperately try feeding, diapering or rocking them into silence.

Dick arrives, and carefully extricates his cooing Bro-Bot from a front-facing Baby Bjorn. Surprising nobody, the baby’s white onesie is emblazoned with ‘BYOB’. In smaller print, the caption reads: Bring Your Own Boobs, and a fake tribal arm-band tattoo peeks out from under one of the short sleeves.

_Stay classy, Dick._

Gia scoops up Jessica Joan, and I move out of her way so she can go play show-and-tell with two 09ers at the back of the class. I turn back to my seat, and my bag catches the edge of the table, knocking books and folders to the floor.

Sighing, I crouch down to retrieve them. Just as Duncan and Shelly arrive. Familiar suede sneakers pause next to my green folder, and I glance up into my ex’s icy eyes.

“Duncan.” I acknowledge him a tight smile. Tucked in one arm, his baby wears a thick white V-neck sweater, a crisp white collar, and beige pants (clearly Shelly’s doing). Attempting to lighten the mood, I address it directly. “Looking good, young Wentworth. Will Muffy and Bitsy be arriving soon?”

Without even a hint of a smile, Duncan steps right over my folder and continues to his seat.

_What the hell, Donut? So that’s how you want to play this?_

“Hi, Veronica.” Shelly bends down, helping me gather papers. “Hey, I wanted to check with you and make sure you’re okay with me and Duncan being partners? Because if you’re not, we can totally switch.”

Poor girl. Between her healthy fear of my wrath and her lifelong crush on Duncan, she’s a nervous wreck.

She hands me my last folder, and we stand. “Thanks for helping, Shelly, and I think it’s great that you two are working together. In fact, I think you should let him handle the lion’s share of work. He needs all the baby practice he can get.”

Across the room, Duncan’s head swings in my direction, jaw tight, and eyes cold enough to cause frostbite.

Oops. Guess I broke the sacred ‘Ignore it until it goes away’ rule.

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

I find Mary Mooney on the lunch patio, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s deaf. Luckily, I know a bit of sign language. At least, enough to make out that my mom was a horrible monster, who bullied her.

Only Principal Moorhead gives me a definitive answer. The Lianne Mars he remembers was unequivocally vicious.  
  
Great genes I’ve inherited, huh? Guess being adopted is quite the advantage for little Jessica Joan Mars Goodman (who’s currently suffocating under a baby blanket, so nobody blames me for the dress).

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

A hot ball of fury burns in my gut as my quarry peels off from the laughing pack of PCHers. “Catch you guys later.”

_How dare he have fun!_

The group continues around the corner, and I make my approach. “I know what you did to Logan.”

Thumper pauses in the act of spinning his combination lock, releasing it so it clangs down against his locker. He looks me up and down, leers. “And you’re here to deliver a little elven justice?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Short jokes. How original.”

“What do you want, Veronica?”

“I want you to leave Logan alone. Don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him. Don’t go near him.”

“Does he know you’re fighting his battles for him? Or did he put you up to this?” Thumper picks up his lock again, eyes lifting to the ceiling, as if trying to recall where he left off.

“Forty-two.”

“Pardon?”

“Your combination. Sixteen, twenty-nine, forty-two. You looked a little lost there.”

He eyes me now. Wary.

“To answer your question, Logan has no idea we’re having this conversation, and he doesn’t need to find out. In fact, that would involve you speaking to him, which, as I’ve already mentioned, is off-limits.”

Anger flickers in Thumper’s eyes. He moves closer, trying to intimidate me. “I have a better idea. I’ll tell Logan how you earned him an ass-whooping while he’s curled-up on the ground, trying to cover his face. Kinda like that night on the bridge.”

“Stay. Away. From. Him.”

He takes another step closer, crowding me against a neighboring locker. “You’re ninety pounds, soaking wet. What do you think you can do to me?”

I bend my arm at the elbow, easing my taser out from my jacket sleeve. It’s not necessary to press the button. Thumper backs up, both hands lifted in a ‘no-harm-no-foul’ gesture.

“Answer something for me. Was it you? Are you the one who shot out Logan’s back window last August, while we were parked in front of my apartment?”

“Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.” Thumper’s lips twist in a sneer. He leans forward, tucks a strand of hair behind my ears, and I have to fight against my gag reflex. “But if you think I’m willing to go that far, shouldn’t you treat me with a little more respect?” He knocks once on the locker next to my head and walks away.

“555-9535,” I call after him.

Thumper freezes, then turns back around.

“Yeah, Einstein. I have your cell phone. You should be more careful when dumping people I love in out-of-the-way ditches.”

Genuine fear glimmers in his eyes momentarily, and I make a mental note to inspect his call history. There’s something there.

“Who cares?” Thumper regains his bravado. “I already got me a new phone. It’s all yours.”

“Possession is nine tenths of the law. So anyway, how long do you think it would take to bring the Secret Service to your doorstep with this thing? I’d guess twenty-four hours, but that could be optimistic. Should we start a pool?”

“Fine!” he hisses. “I’ll leave your boy alone.”

“Make sure _your_ boys get the message.”

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

I do manage to fit in some quality Echolls-time. It’s about what you would expect – high drama, wild hand gestures, oily smarm, with just a hint of genuine warmth.

_Oh, you thought I meant Logan?_

I haven’t been that lucky. But Trina’s back, and assisting the drama department with their production of Hamlet. If there’s a positive, it’s that Evan Rachel Wood is the front runner to play me in the Lilly Kane Murder movie. If they’d hired Tara Reid, as rumored, I may have been motivated to shut down that production.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

The girl stands next to Logan’s truck. Tall, slender, blonde. I’m not close enough to make out her features, but it has to be the elusive Hannah.

  
Logan leans casually against the X-Terra, stroking one hand over the vehicle’s curves, and planting sexy subliminal messages in the poor girl’s head.

_Or at least that’s what it’s doing to me._

Hannah’s body language is easy enough to interpret. A sort of giddy bashfulness in the face of his overwhelming sexuality. Inexperience. Hero worship.

They haven’t slept together. _Yet._

But that won’t last long. If she’s this flustered when he’s barely trying, she stands no chance against a full seduction attempt.

If only I had time to get closer. Not to meddle, of course, I just want a closer look at her face. Unfortunately, I’m already running late for an appointment. Hannah retcon will have to wait.

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

# 39.

Patty Wilson was my mom’s high school lab partner. She agrees to meet me at The Hut before my shift, and boy, does she drop a bombshell on me.

  
It seems Lianne and Jake’s relationship was as volatile as Lilly and Logan’s. The summer before Senior year, during one of their “off” periods, Jake began dating Celeste. It didn’t last long, and he eventually reunited with my mom.

They spent the next two months working out their relationship issues, culminating in their grand romantic Homecoming coronation. Lianne confided to her girlfriends that their relationship was on solid ground. Better than ever. Nothing could possibly come between them again.

She’d underestimated Celeste ‘Pregnant with Jake’s Baby’ Conathan.

I press for more details, but she doesn’t have much. Celeste transferred to Pan High not long after, and Patty never saw her again until the following Spring, at Senior Prom.

Back at home, Dad humors my fixation on Mom’s high school years, but he can neither confirm nor deny whether Celeste Conathan delivered, miscarried, or aborted Jake’s child.

He does come through with another juicy tidbit, however.

It seems a baby was abandoned in the women’s rest room during Prom. That same prom Celeste attended seven months after transferring away from Neptune High.

Does Duncan have an older sibling out there somewhere? And if so, why didn’t Jake and Celeste search for their child after they married? Wouldn’t they want to care for it?

I laugh out loud.

_Right. Jake believed I was his daughter for seventeen years, and never provided a penny of support._

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

# 40.

It appears that trouble is brewing in Penthouse Paradise. It’s morning, I’ve delivered the shrieking nightmare to Gia, and I’m on my way to first period when I catch sight of my two exes.  
  
Duncan leans against a neighboring locker while Logan retrieves his books. I’m not close enough to hear their words, but their body language is a rare role-reversal.

Logan’s expression is angry and judgmental, his words seem clipped. Duncan, on the other hand, appears defensive and just a bit guilty.

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is wing’d cupid painted blind.” A voice speaks dramatically from my side.

“ _Huh?_ ” I turn my head. “Trina. You scared me.”

“You looked a bit mesmerized, there. My baby brother sure has grown up handsome.”

_That’s putting it mildly._

“I suppose. If you squint.”

Trina smirks in a way that – seeing as she’s adopted – can only be nurture. “I always hoped you two kids would reunite. Logan was so nauseatingly in love with you last summer.”

That’s not a punch in the gut, or anything. “Was he? He seemed more in love with driving around with his friends and acting like a maniac.”

Trina shrugs. “You know how it goes, Veronica. Boys will be boys.”

“And girls will cut them off.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Well anyway, you were a lot better for Logan than that woman he’s sleeping with now. She’s like forty or something.”

“You’ve met Kendall, I see.” I flash her a tight smile. “She’s actually twenty-five. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Whatever her age, she had her tongue in Duncan’s eardrum when we walked into the penthouse yesterday.” She shivers, disgusted. “Then she bounced right over and glued herself to my baby brother, as if nothing were amiss. What is a grown woman doing messing around with children, anyway?”

It beats me, but explains the tension between Logan and Duncan.

_I wasn’t worth fighting for, but apparently, Kendall is._

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

Mrs. Mahnoviski, projects the warm kind of demeanor you would hope for in a foster parent. She’s taken in a number of children over the years, but immediately remembers the prom baby – a little girl, as it turns out. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you’d forget.

  
I tell her that the birth parents have no desire to interfere in the child’s life, they only want to provide for her well-being. Financially.

Turns out? Not so necessary. The Prom baby was placed with an extremely wealthy local family. One with a spate of recent tragedies – mother commits suicide, father in jail.

_Holy Shit!_

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

  

**Veronica Mars 5:34 PM**  
Fb, url. Abg gb nynez lbh, ohg Gevan fhssrerq n snyy qhevat cynl erurnefny gbqnl, naq jnf gnxra gb Arcghar Trareny jvgu n fcenvarq naxyr.

  

**Logan Echolls 5:37 PM**  
N SNYY? Be n pbairavragyl-gvzrq fjbba?

  

**Veronica Mars 5:38 PM**  
Fur gevccrq ba cbbe Lbevpx’f fxhyy.

  

**Logan Echolls 5:40 PM**  
Nuu. Tbbq thl. V xarj uvz jryy.

  

**Veronica Mars 5:41 PM**  
Fb, Gevan jnf nqbcgrq, evtug?

  

**Logan Echolls 5:42 PM**  
Lrf. Yhpxvyl, gurer ner ab Rpubyyf trarf va ure xvqqvr cbby.

  

**Logan Echolls 5:41 PM**  
V gnxr gung onpx. V’q tynqyl unaq bire NYY Rpubyyf trarf, vs vg zrnag V pbhyq or serr bs gurz.

  

**Veronica Mars 5:42 PM**  
Qvq fur rire gel frnepuvat sbe ure ovegu cneragf?

  

**Logan Echolls 5:43 PM**  
Ab. Jul obgure, jura zl cneragf tnir ure rirelguvat fur jnagrq? Rkprcg sbe gnyrag. Vf gurer n ernfba sbe lbhe fhqqra vagrerfg va zl fvfgre?

  

**Veronica Mars 5:45 PM**  
Whfg phevbhf.

  

**Logan Echolls 5:43 PM**  
Evtug.

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

“Let me guess. Veronica showed up here and, out of the kindness of her heart, volunteered to help you locate your birth parents.” Logan leans against the hospital room door frame, one ankle crossed over the other, and lips twisted in a smirk. “Am I hot or cold?”

_Well, shit._

“Logan! Join us.” Trina lounges in her bed, dressed in a champagne satin peignoir. She lifts one dramatically pleated sleeve, waving him inside, then gestures to me. “You never should have let this one get away. She has a devious mind.”

“Devious. I’ll just mark that down under ‘traits your family might encourage in a romantic partner’.” He enters the room, giving Trina a tepid hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad, but my doctor wants to keep me until the swelling goes down.”

He scrunches his forehead, conspicuously glances over his shoulder. “What? No cameras, today?”

“You tease baby bro.” Trina smiles, indulgent, then annunciates slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. “But you do realize I don’t always have camera crews on call, right?”

“Obviously.” He snorts through the right side of his mouth. “I mean, I figured you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing mom’s robe from her post-Botox press conference, but…” Shrug.

“Mom wore this during a press conference?” Panic-stricken, Trina clutches at my wrist. “Quick, Veronica! Grab the copper silk robe from my closet.”

Logan chuckles, and he couldn’t possibly look smugger. “Copper? With that hair?”

I set my laptop on the bedside table and rise. “What are you doing here, Logan?”

“Um…visiting my injured sister? Since you texted me that she was lying injured in a hospital bed. How about you?”

“Same.” Trina’s ‘closet’ is a tall Ikea-style armoire. I sift through her hospital wardrobe collection of faux fur, leather, and silk – how long does she think she’ll be here? “I was there when she had her accident, and I just wanted to check up on her.”

Of course, no sooner do the words leave my mouth, than my video editing software completes its rendering cycle and begins to autoplay.

Trina’s voice issues from my laptop speakers. _“I don't need hope. I need bone marrow. My doctor said only a blood relation can save me. I'm adopted. Unless the mother who abandoned me comes forward, unless I find out who I really am...it's over for me.”_

Logan looks at me, one brow lifted. Which either says a lot about his instinct for bullshit, or his concern for his sister.

  
I wave a hand at the computer. “Oh. Right. We recorded that while I was helping her run lines.” I pluck the orange robe from a hanger, tossing it in Trina’s direction. “Actually, I need to get going. It’s almost time for my shift at the Hut.”

“So soon?” Trina pouts.

“I’m afraid so.”

The baby carrier sits on a table, a bottle propped in JJ’s mouth, and while I’m waiting for the video to finish saving to mpeg, she starts to yowl.

Trina stares, horror-struck. “Please make it stop!”

Before I can set down my laptop again, Logan scoops up the baby bot, lifting it to his shoulder and giving it a few thumps on the back. The crying slows, ceases, and changes into happy coos as he lightly bounces the baby in his arms.

Okay, I can’t help it. My ovaries do that _thing_. You know the thing – like bursting from a near-comatose state to stand at attention – and I imagine I’m staring at him much like Backup does when I hold a Beggin’ Strip just out of reach.

“What?” He asks, with a nervous laugh. “I’ve been taking care of Duncan’s spawn every time it starts squawking in the middle of the night. It’s not that hard.”

_Jeez. Get a grip, Veronica._

I transfer the saved video to a flash drive, which I place in Trina’s palm. “Here’s your footage. We’ll talk again tomorrow, okay?”

“We definitely will, Veronica.” Trina winks. Her media contacts should be here within the hour.

I pack my laptop into my bag, swinging the strap up over my shoulder. My phone buzzes, and I scan the incoming text. “It’s from my dad. About your case.”

“What case?” Trina asks.

Logan cuts me off with a glance before I can answer. Good thing, because blabbing to Aaron’s darling devoted daughter about our plans to thwart his get-out-of-jail schemes would be categorically stupid.

“Nothing interesting.” He places JJ in her carrier – even going to the trouble to secure the straps. “Mr. Mars is helping me track down an artist from one of mom’s paintings. I was thinking about buying more of his work.”

Trina makes a face. “Why would you do that? Mom had terrible taste.”

“Except in robes.” Logan winks, then turns his attention my way. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Sure. Okay.” I wave to his sister. “Bye, Trina.”

“Goodnight, Veronica. Have fun, you two.”

Logan picks up the carrier and follows me through the open door. “Running lines, huh?”

I shrug. “Peace offering for refusing to join her crappy play.”

“Liar.” His eyes slide in my direction. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re so interested in Trina’s biological parentage?”

“School project?” My sneakers screech against the linoleum floor as I pick up speed.

“Try again. That only works on your dad.”

“Fine.” I grab Logan’s elbow, dragging him into the stairwell, and dropping my voice. “Senior Prom, 1980. Somebody abandoned a baby in the girl’s bathroom.”

“Classy. Trina was born in 1980.” He skips down three stairs, then turns back. “Wait…”

I meet his eyes and nod.

“So, this bone marrow thing…you’re trying to smoke out the real parents? Like an appeal to their good nature or something?”

“Well, if the mother is who I think it is, she doesn’t possess any goodness. But it’s worth a try.” I hold up a hand before he can speak. “Don’t ask. I’ll let you know once I have an answer.”

He mulls this over as we finish descending the stairs. At the bottom landing, he holds the door for me, then follows me through the lobby and out to the parking lot.

“So, what was your dad’s update about?” Logan asks, as he straps the baby carrier into my back seat.

“Right.” I bring up Dad’s text and open the file attachment.

Logan peers closely at the photo. A burly looking man, with a salt-and-pepper beard. “I don’t know. There’s something familiar about him, but I don’t know from where or how.”

“Get in, and I’ll call my dad.”

Logan circles the car and climbs inside. Wrestles with the lever to push his seat back, while I dial Dad on my cell.

“Hello?”

“Dad. You’re on speakerphone. Logan and I were just visiting Trina in the hospital.”

“Hey, Mr. Mars.” Logan says.

“Logan. How’s your sister?”

Logan smirks as a Channel 9 news van pulls up to the hospital’s main entrance, followed moments later by one from Channel 5. Slouching low, he answers, “She’s fine now.”

“Good. Good.” Dad says. “You two are alone?”

“In my car. So, what’s up?”

“As we suspected, somebody accessed the Echolls storage locker today with the stolen key. I have it all on video.”

“The guy in the photo?” I ask. “What did he steal?”

“Yeah, that’s him. In the footage, he headed straight to the box labeled ‘47’, stuffed an Oscar statue in his messenger bag, and locked-up on his way out.”

“Yes!” Logan fist pumps for some reason.

I aim a questioning look his way. “I thought your dad’s Oscars burned in the fire?”

“Fakes. Dad was crazy paranoid that somebody would steal them, so he had copies made up to display at the house.” Addressing my father, he asks, “So? Don’t keep me in suspense. Where did it end up?”

“Video footage won’t tell us that,” I say, trying to manage his expectations. “Unless my dad was surveilling the property, we’ll just have to wait for it to turn back up again.”

“Well…” Logan’s mouth stretches into a wide grin. “Then it’s a good thing your father and I switched the real Oscars with another set of fakes. These ones, embedded with tracking chips.”

I beam at my phone. “And people wonder where I get my brains from…”

“Actually, this was all Logan’s idea.” Dad says.

Logan humbly wipes his knuckles on his shirt.

“So, you two ready for the smoking gun?”

“Born ready,” I say.

“According to the GPS, the statuette is currently located at 368 Ochre Road. It’s a small office building, and I think we can safely rule out the dentist, the dermatologist, and the eyebrow aesthetician. Which leaves, Douglass Green, who happens to be an investigator for a law firm.”

“Let me take a wild guess…” Logan fiddles with my gear shift. “Lavoie, Stern and Pope?”

“Does he always take the fun out of everything?” Dad asks.

From my experience, Logan adds all kinds of fun, but no father wants to hear that, so I say, “He doesn’t make the denouement any easier.”

He smiles down at his hands.

“Out of curiosity,” I address Logan. “There were hundreds of items on that inventory list. How were you so sure they’d take one of the Oscars?”

“They’re the only thing that would fit the criteria. Identifiable as belonging to my dad, and important enough for him to chase after. His most treasured possessions.”

“Chase after?” I ask.

“When we were locked up together, he admitted to following Lilly home, but never mentioned the tapes. I got the impression…” Logan trails off, eyes unfocused, as if picturing the moment. “Hold on. I think that’s why the guy in the photo looked so familiar.”

“The photo I sent Veronica?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, I’m not positive, but that might be the same guy who was locked in the cell with Aaron and I.”

Dad sounds excited when he speaks again. “If Veronica brought you by the office, would you have time to watch the video footage?”

“Can’t. I have a shift at The Hut in thirty minutes.”

“How about I pick up a pizza, and then meet you there in forty-five minutes?” Logan asks.

“I’ll see you then,” Dad says, and then disconnects the call.

I sigh. _Why is the wrong Mars getting all the Logan time?_

# 41.

The bike leans heavily to the left as we make the turn onto Charles Street, and I cling for dear life to Weevil’s leather jacket. It’s the third time he’s put us at an unnecessarily horizontal angle today, and I’m beginning to think he’s not quite over that little taser situation.

Ahead, a convertible Corvette idles at the side of the road, deep crimson, like Lilly's special-occasion lip gloss. Strobe lights from a sheriff's cruiser bounce off the glistening surface, and a deputy looms over the driver's door.

Weevil glides to the curb and cuts off the motorcycle's engine.

Yanking off my hot, suffocating, helmet, I hop off and hand it to him.

He secures it to the bike and joins me. "You ready?"

I smooth down my tee shirt and jacket, tighten the straps on my backpack, and run fingers through my sweaty hair. "Let's do this."

The deputy watches our approach, impassively.

"Hey," I say.

"Hello." There’s a hint of a smile.

A tall, middle-aged man sits behind the steering wheel, blandly handsome, and bespectacled. He stares, bewildered by our presence at a routine traffic stop, then recognition sets in, and his eyes narrow. "I know you."

"Well, that’s a bit of an understatement, Tom,” I tease.

Right on cue, the deputy points at a brown paper package on the passenger's seat. "What's in the bag?"

"That?” Fear flickers in the man’s eyes. “Just some cold medicine I picked up at the pharmacy. Why?"

"You're telling me, if I take a peek inside, I'm not going to find cocaine?"

The driver's gaze darts between the deputy, myself, and Weevil. "Don't you need a warrant to search my vehicle?"

"Not if I have probable cause."

"What probable cause? You said my tail light was out."

That part is true.

"I received a tip that you were involved in an illegal drug buys."

"An anonymous tip? How can you even...?" Tom nervously thumbs at the cruise control button on his steering wheel.

"Not quite anonymous." I lift my hand with a tepid wave. "Tom, I caved, and told him everything."

His eyebrows pull together. "What are you talking about?"

“Are you going to make me say it out loud?” I shake my head, eyes lifted to the sky. “I confessed to the friendly deputy here, about how you offered to score some blow for me when I visited your office for a consultation. Said it would give me the energy to juggle school, homework, and my two part-time jobs.”

“I’m a doctor, and I would never—”

I interrupt him. “I also informed him how we met up at your office this morning, and you drove us over to the cigar shop. You know the one, on Ocean Avenue, where I witnessed you purchasing drugs in the back room.” A sudden wail erupts behind my head. “Perfect. Just give me a sec.”

I slide the backpack from my shoulder, handing it to Weevil to hold while I liberate my howling animatronic baby (dressed today in an apple green, miniature Juicy Couture velour track suit, Thanks lots, Gia).  
All three men stare at me in silence, while I stuff a bottle in her mouth. “What? It’s a school project. Remind me to never reproduce.”

"This is ludicrous, Deputy. I've met this girl once in my life." Tom Griffith finds his voice, tugs at the knot on his tie. "A couple weeks ago, I advised her strongly against getting work. I even gave her literature on Body Dysmorphic Disorder and sent her on her way. Now, maybe that made her angry, or made her feel as if I was standing in the way of her dreams, but that's the only contact I've ever had with this girl. I swear.”

“Really, Tom?” I slide Jessica Joan – _I mean, mechanical hell spawn, what’s wrong with me?_ – into the crook of my elbow, leaning the bottle against my chest to free up a hand. “I’ve never ridden in your convertible? You never procured drugs for me?”

“Of course not. I have a daughter your age, and I wouldn’t dream of corrupting a minor that way.”

I turn back to the deputy. “You’ll want to fingerprint the car interior - door handle, dashboard, and the seat belt buckle. And of course, you’ll find his prints all over that bag of cocaine I agreed to turn over to you.”

“This is a setup!” Dr. Griffith's eyes grow desperate. "She's lying! She's a very disturbed girl who needs professional help."

I point to myself. “I’m crazy? Well, what do we have here?” My hand slides into my bag, extracting a small envelope of 4x6 prints from the One-Hour Photo, and balancing them on the baby. I hand them over, one at a time, to the driver. “That’s you, inside Liberty Cigar shop, you speaking to the proprietor, and there’s me browsing the selection, a few of you and I together in the cigar shop.” I pause to address Weevil. “Great thinking, by the way, getting today’s newspaper in the frame. Can’t have him claiming these were taken some other day. Of course, the metadata would prove that as well. Oh, and here we are, heading into the back room.”

The deputy turns back to the driver. "That's all the probable cause I need. Please step out of the car."

All hope of reprieve dies in the man’s eyes. He opens the door, gets out, and follows instructions to place both hands on the hood.

The deputy quickly verifies the contents of the paper bag, with the tip of a pen. “Exactly as you said, Veronica. Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime.” I lean back against the car door, enjoying the show while he frisks Tom Griffith, handcuffs him, and reads his Miranda rights.

“Why?” Tom’s voice cracks and he addresses me directly. “Can you at least explain that to me? I haven’t done anything to you. I don’t even know you. Why would you be so malicious, as to ruin the life of a complete stranger?”

 _Malicious._ There’s that word, again. Like mother, like daughter.

“Ruining the life of a complete stranger…” I repeat. “That would be pretty awful. Reprehensible, even. If it were true.”

It’s the tiniest of straws, but Griffith grasps at it. “Look, you obviously went to a lot of trouble to set me up. Following me around a store to make it look like we were together, and I don’t know how you planted my fingerprints. But we can end this now. Tell the truth, and I promise I won’t press charges.”

"Guess it's my word against yours, Doc." I shrug, watching him with pity. "Kind of like it's your word against Logan Echolls."

Comprehension dawns in the doctor's eyes and he looks to the deputy to see if he's going to let me get away with this.

Leo is absorbed in reading the fine print on his ticket pad.

Griffith turns back to me. "And if I recanted my witness statement about Logan Echolls?"

"Well...I'm just a silly girl with body dysmorphia, so I maybe I got a little confused." I shrug again. "I'll follow you to the station."

The doctor nervously exhales. "If I agree, this goes away forever?"

"As long as you stick to your end of the bargain, I'll forget where I stashed that evidence."

Weevil joins the conversation. "Out of curiosity, who put you up to it?"

Griffith glances again at Leo, who's blatantly checking out a college-aged pedestrian in short-shorts. "It was Liam Fitzpatrick."

"Did he say why?" I ask.

"He's not exactly the kind of man to explain himself."

"Which member of the PCHers is he working with?" At the doctor's confused expression, Weevil clarifies. "PCHers. Mexican Bikers."

"Oh. I wouldn't know that. I stay away from the River Stix as much as I can. So, can we get this over with?"

"Yeah."

Weevil taps the door as we walk away. "You should get that tail light fixed," he calls over his shoulder.

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

 

**Veronica Mars 4:41 PM**  
Jung qb lbh jnag svefg? Gur tbbq arjf be gur onq arjf?

  

**Logan Echolls 4:42 PM**  
Gur onq arjf, V fhccbfr. Whfg chapu zr va gur snpr naq trg vg bire jvgu.

  

**Veronica Mars 4:43 PM**  
Bxnl. Gur onq arjf vf, lbh bjr zr n snibe, naq V’z pbyyrpgvat gbzbeebj avtug. Pyrne hc lbhe fpurqhyr

  

**Logan Echolls 4:45 PM**  
Lbh fnvq onq arjf, abg qrinfgngvat arjf.

  

**Veronica Mars 4:46 PM**  
Lbhe jvg jvyy gnxr lbh sne va yvsr

  

**Logan Echolls 4:47 PM**  
Naq gur tbbq arjf? Jnvg. Yrg zr thrff. Lbh’er cynaavat gb tenag zr gur ubabe bs srrqvat lbh, juvyr jr unaqyr jungrire vg vf lbh arrq zl nffvfgnapr jvgu.

  

**Veronica Mars 4:48 PM**  
V fnvq tbbq arjf, abg qryvtugshy arjf. Gur tbbq arjf vf lbh’er n serr zna. V jngpurq Qe. Pbxrurnq erpnagvat uvf jvgarff fgngrzrag whfg svsgrra zvahgrf ntb. Qrchgl Yrb’f ba uvf jnl gb lbhe cynpr gb erzbir gung frkl naxyr oenpryrg lbh’ir orra ebpxvat.

  

**Logan Echolls 4:48 PM**  
Ohzzre. Vg jnf fhpu n uvg jvgu gur ynqvrf.

  

**Veronica Mars 4:49 PM**  
Qba’g jbeel, lbh fgvyy unir lbhe zbarl gb snyy onpx ba

  

**Logan Echolls 5:01 PM**  
Irebavpn? Jbeqf pnaabg rkcerff zl tengvghqr. Nalguvat lbh jnag - zl zbarl, zl pne, zl yvsr - vg’f nyy lbhef.

 

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

 

# 42.

  
“One super chocolate chunk cookie and one slice of coconut cake for the lady.” I place dessert plates on the table between the two laptops, making a mental note to sample some of that cake after my shift.

Beaver lifts a hand in thanks, too absorbed with his computer to look up, but Mac smiles. “Thanks, Veronica.”

Is that perfume I’m detecting?

“Okay. Well, I’ll let you two get back to your web design…thingy. If you need any refills, I’ll just be over there, jamming an icepick into my ear canal.” I back away, nodding at the karaoke stage, where a blond guy yodels and awful rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.

“Lars is at it again, huh?” Mac asks. As if this wasn’t his seventh turn onstage tonight?

“Superstar in the making.” I trace a star shape in the air with my pointer fingers.

I’m detecting a direct correlation between Mac’s diminished powers-of-observation and the amount of time she spends with Beaver. They’re working on some super-secret project together, and it’s the third time this week, I’ve encountered them together at The Hut, heads bent together, all sparkling eye contact, shy smiles and dimples.

It’s kind of adorable.

My closest girl friend is hardcore crushing on the less-vile Casablancas brother, and there doesn’t seem to be anything unrequited about it.

Speaking of vile…

Three tables over, Dick sprawls, knees spread wide, and flips through the karaoke songbook. Bro-Bot, lays on the table, wearing an “I WAS THE FASTEST SWIMMER” cotton onesie. If you're picturing an accompanying sperm-with-a-smile image, you're dead on. 

_Gross._

Luke sits at his right, flirting with our server, Alyssa. Or…just being friendly. It’s hard to tell with him.

Opposite, Logan stands next to his chair, idly emptying his jacket pockets, while staring at Lars with a lowered brow.

“Hmm…” I slide up on his left. “There’s something different about you.”

“Would you believe I lost my virginity?” He flutters his lashes at me. “Why? Am I glowing?”

“Nah.” I touch my bottom lip, and then point down to his ankle. “There used to be a bulge down there, right?”

“Ahh.” He nods, sagely. “I switched to boxer briefs. They keep everything nice and contained.”

I groan and hip check him. “First night of freedom, and you came here, of all places? I figured you’d skip school tomorrow and head straight to Tijuana.”

“And miss out on this performance?” He waves a hand at the stage, then leans close. “That’s all an act, right? Like somebody dared him to go up there and sing like that?”

“Sadly enough? No. He’s a regular.”

“Anyway, I already promised to help you out tomorrow, so I told Dick we’d have to go to TJ some other weekend.”

“You’re as whipped as before, and you’re not even getting any.” Dick leans across the table, and nudges Logan. “Your stalker’s here.”

“Stalker?” I scowl at him. “Wow, I can’t tell if that’s a promotion or demotion from last week when you called me a Succubus.”

“Way to be hostile, Ronnie. I was talking about Fatal Affectation over there.” He does that thing where he scrunches one nostril, and points stage-left, where a tall-ish teenaged girl waits on deck for her turn on the mic.

She’s the kind of girl who might legally change her name to Raven – evidenced by her black everything. From her long, cheap wig, to her heavy eyeliner, her flowy, corset-bodiced dress, fishnet stockings, and tall combat boots.

Wow.

“Dude, knock it off.” Logan shakes his head. “That girl is harmless.”

“Harmlessly obsessed, maybe.” Dick elbows Luke. “What do you think, Haldeman? Ronnie versus Stalkerella in a death match for Logan’s magic Johnson?”

Luke scoffs. “Come on, dude. Haven’t you learned? Always bet on Veronica Mars.”

_Um…thanks? I think._

“It’s hard to say, man,” Dick gestures to me. “Ronnie’s got that perma-rage thing going, like she probably inflicts pain just for funsies, but is she any match for pure batshit crazy?” He nods at the other girl.

Guys!” Logan smacks Dick on the back of the head. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dick shrugs, like it’s no skin off his back. “But you know I’m right.”

“If anyone’s right, it’s Luke. Don’t bet against Veronica. For any reason.” Logan says. “But your premise is seriously flawed.”

“Come on, dude. Everybody knows Ronnie has anger issues. When’s the last time you saw her smile?”

What’s he talking about? I smile all the time. I’m a virtual ray of sunshine.

“No, I meant, in what world would she fight for me? Or any other guy?”

_Wow, it’s been three hours Logan, and you’ve forgotten already?_

I smile, tight and irritated. “I think Weevil and Dr. Griffith might say otherwise, but hey, what do I know?” I shove my memo pad in my pocket and turn to leave.

Logan grabs my shoulder. “Wait, Veronica. Listen, I’m grateful for everything you did. I owe you my life and my freedom. But I think you can agree there’s a big difference between you fighting on my side and fighting _for_ me like I’m some kind of prize.”

He doesn’t mean it as an insult. He knows I’d rather die than appear needy or pathetic over a boy. Yet, his comment makes me feel defensive.

Maybe the censure is my own internal voice and regrets, yet I feel compelled to lash out anyway. “I guess we have that in common, then. Why fight when there’s a sea full of fish to choose from? Or a country club full of step-mommies in your case?”

Logan’s eyes flash, and I brace myself for a different kind of fight, but Lars mercifully, finishes his performance, and the karaoke tech’s voice echoes through the speakers. “Next up, we have…Della!”

Stalkerella… _er_ …Della shuffles over to the microphone, adjusts the height, then clutches it in both hands, and lifts her eyes to Logan’s face.

>   
>  **How can you see into my eyes like open doors?**

It takes a measure of self-control to keep my groan on the inside. She isn’t awful-awful, but Amy Lee won’t be inviting her on tour any time soon.

> **Leading you down, into my core**   
>  **Where I've become so numb**

“Dude…” Dick snickers. “She wants to lead you down into her core.”

Logan rolls his eyes and shifts a questioning glance to me.

_What? Are you wondering if the doors are open to my core? Because…yes, wide open. For you._

Or is he just looking for my two cents on poor Della’s crush?

And why am I standing around wasting time with Logan, anyway?

> **Without a soul**   
>  **My spirit's sleeping somewhere cold**   
>  **Until you find it there, and lead it, back, home**

 

“Hey, Veronica.” My manager Lisa approaches. “Your dad’s on the phone. He says it's important."

“Tell Dad I said, ‘Hey’,” Logan says, as I turn to follow her.

I examine his face, but my sarcasm-detector tells me he’s sincere. “Yeah. Okay.”

I still don’t know why my father and my ex are suddenly getting along, or what happened at the storage locker, but who am I to complain?

I pick up the extension behind the pastry display to avoid interruptions. "Hello?"

Wedging the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I remove the coconut cake from behind the glass, and cut off a tiny sliver, transferring it to a dessert plate.

"Veronica." Dad sounds out of breath, and I hear other voices in the background. "How soon do you get off work?"

"About thirty minutes. Where are you calling me from?" I take a bite of cake, and squeeze my eyes closed in pleasure. Yes. This is good.

"Sheriff's Department. There's been a break in the bus crash case."

I set down my fork. "Tell me more?"

"You’ll remember there were twelve phones that could have possibly made the call that detonated the bomb?"

"Right. Eleven phones with NEXTEL carriers." I take another bite of cake, before tossing the rest in the trash.

"Well, I was able to exclude ten of them. The remaining two phones were prepaid models."

"So, another dead end." I sigh.

The espresso machine screeches and hisses, as Alyssa starts making a latte. I stick my finger in my other ear, in order to hear.

"Actually, it's not a dead end. Both were purchased by the same person.”

“One to use as the bomb, and the other to detonate?”

“Exactly. He used a fake name, but I was able to view security footage from the cellular store. Lamb's getting an arrest warrant as we speak."

"Well? Don't keep me in suspense. Who was it?"

"I'm sorry, honey. It was the Casablancas boy."

"Dick? No way.” The idea is almost preposterous. “If he’s playing stupid, it has to be the most successful long con in history. He’s been that way since elementary school.”

“No, honey. The younger brother. Cassidy.”

“What?” My blood runs cold, and I want to protest. Cassidy is sweet. Neglected by his parents and abused by his brother. He’s too pathetic to be a killer. Too sad.

Or would that be too wily? Manipulative? Diabolical?

And flirting with my closest girlfriend as we speak.

“Dad.” I whisper. “He’s here right now.”

“Dammit. Don’t confront him, Veronica.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And that’s the honest truth. I’ll leave this one to the authorities.

Dad’s voice muffles, as if he’s moved the phone away from his mouth. “My daughter says the Casablancas boy is at Java the Hut right now.”

Lamb’s voice. “Sacks and Carson, go pick up Cassidy Casablancas at the coffee shop on Seventh and Adams. Try not to spook the kid.”

I hear a shuffling sound and then Dad speaks to me. “I’ll see you when I get home. And Veronica?”

“Hmm?”

Is Beaver staring at me? Can he read lips? He can’t possibly have overheard from this far away, right?

“I love you. Be careful.”

“I always am.”

My hand shakes as I hang up the phone receiver. What do I do now?

Across the room, Mac speaks animatedly to Beaver – hand gestures and dimples. He in turn, appears antsy and distracted.

Oh man, this is going to devastate her. How can I get her away from him, without alerting Cassidy or making him feel cornered?

If I tell her she has a family emergency, she’ll want to call home and check in. If I say her parents want her to meet them at the hospital, Beaver might offer to give her a ride.

_Girl problems, it is._

“Hey, Mac?” I approach the table with an embarrassed smile. “I hate to interrupt, but could you possibly meet me in the Ladies’ room?”

“Oh…I don’t think I have…” She reaches for her purse, but I wave a hand.

“Could you actually…” I tilt the top of my head, and slide my eyes toward Logan, as if I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of him. “…just meet me in there? I’ll only take a minute of your time.”

Beaver watches the exchange, lips flattened together, and I can’t tell if he’s paranoid or I am.

Were his eyes always this sinister?

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll be back in a second.” Mac smiles apologetically at Beaver, then rises, closes her laptop and follows me to the restroom.

“Alright, what’s going on, Veronica?” She asks, as the bathroom door swings closed behind us. “Your bag is a Boy Scout’s Handbook of preparedness, and you’re the last person who would want to talk about boy problems.”

I crouch, peering under both stalls. Empty. “Listen, Mac. You need to stay in here for a while. I can’t explain why, but you can’t go back out to that table.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, levels a blank stare at me. “You want me to ditch Cassidy, on your say-so, without giving me a reason.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I want.” I quirk the left side of my mouth, but she’s not amused. “I asking you this for your own good.”

“No, Veronica.” Her jaw sets, obstinately. “You’re asking me to be rude and disrespectful to somebody I like very much. Somebody who’s paying me for my time.”

“I hope he paid you in advance,” I mutter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I can’t tell her the truth – not until he’s behind bars – too much could go wrong. She might warn him in time for him to get away. He might take her hostage. Or hurt her. No, I’m doing the right thing by keeping her in the dark.

Regardless, I’m not proud of my actions.

Mac’s handbag sits, unzipped, on the edge of the counter.

Leaning close to the mirror, and pretending to check my appearance, I “accidentally” knock it off the edge, spilling contents all over the floor.

“Oops!” I cover my open mouth with both hands. “I’m so sorry about that.”

Mac gasps, outraged. “You did that on purpose!”

“No, I just kind of bumped it with my elbow.”

“Yeah, I saw that. And I also saw the thump you gave it when your first bump didn’t work.”

Together, we crouch down, and begin gathering items. Thankfully, Alyssa already cleaned the bathroom tonight, and she’s compulsive about cleanliness and hygiene.

I pick up a silver case with a popped latch, containing a stack of business cards:

 

**Mackenzie Technical Solutions**   
**Web Design / Research / Hardware Support**   
**Reasonable and Discrete**

 

“These are new,” I say.

“Cassidy’s suggestion.” She holds out her hand. “He thought they’d help me get more jobs.”

“How…clever.” Pretending to hand it over, I give my wrist a little flick, and the cards spill everywhere.

“VERONICA! I saw that!”

“It was an accident! That hinge is sharp.” I bring my finger to my mouth as if sucking away the pain.

“Accident, my ass.”

Mac turns, collecting the cards behind her, and I quickly pop the clasp of her coin purse, flinging pennies, dimes and nickels in every direction. “Shit! I’m sorry! I don’t know why I’m so damn clumsy tonight. I’ll go grab a broom.”

In my defense, I have warned her about the dangers of carrying around that much change. It can’t be good for the posture.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-

  
Halfway to the broom closet, I halt in my tracks.

Beaver’s gone.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I do now?_

As disturbing as it was being in the same room as him, having him unaccounted-for is even worse. Why wouldn’t he wait for Mac’s return?

I’d ask Dick if he knows anything, but he’s currently on stage with his BroBot, taking a turn at karaoke. He sings with an affected raspy quality, and while I can’t quite place the song, it’s vaguely familiar.

Luke pauses from flirting with Alyssa to heckle him with two thumbs down. Dick lobs the baby at him, underhanded, and Luke catches it, against his chest, and tosses it back.

BroBot gurgles and coos.  
  
As for Logan…

_Oh, fuck! Where’s Logan?_

My mouth goes dry and my heart hammers.

Did Beaver somehow find out about his imminent arrest? Did he lure Logan away to use as a shield? As a ‘fuck you’ to me?

One table over from the one Beaver vacated, sits Logan’s admirer, legs crossed, sipping a cappuccino, and thoroughly unimpressed by the ‘entertainment’.

I step in front of her. “Excuse me? Is it Della?”

“Sure.” She sneers, disgusted. “Pretend you don’t know me, Veronica Mars.”

I tilt my head. “I’m sensing hostility. Remind me how we know each other, again?”

“If four years at the same school doesn’t jog your memory, there was the tenth-grade dance team tryouts. You weren’t very encouraging to me, you know.”

Well, if you dance anything like you sing…

“Listen, I’m sorry if I said or did anything to upset you. I actually wanted to ask you about the guy who was sitting at this table.” I point behind me.

“Cassidy Casablancas? What about him?”

“Do you know where he and Logan disappeared to? I expected them to still be here.”

“Cassidy got a phone call. Good news, apparently, because he looked pretty pleased when he hung up.”

Crap. If Beaver is behind the bus crash, he’s surely capable of making people see what he wants them to see. So, the question is, did his phone call actually make him happy? Or did he intend for Della to report back to me? A tactic to make me lower my guard.

“Did he mention a name on the phone?”

“Sorry, I don’t eavesdrop on people.” The insinuation being that I do. “All I know is, he packed up his girlfriend’s computer, asked the manager to hold on to it, and then took off.”

“And Logan? Did he leave with Beaver?”

Della rolls her eyes, flings a hand out. “Logan’s right over there.”

I turn, to find him returning to his table, wiping his hands on the outside of his jeans. My shoulders sag with relief.

_Thank God!_

“Well, thanks for your help.” As little as you provided. “I’ll just…”

“Help? You can stop pretending, Veronica, I know you only came over here to warn me away from Logan.”

I laugh out loud. She thinks I’m threatened by her? That I’m here to scare away the competition?

“Listen, Della, if you think you have the grit – the determination – to handle him, feel free to try your best.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “But take it from somebody who knows, Logan Echolls is not for the faint of heart.”

Belatedly, I realize my whisper is echoeing and amplified.

Dick is in my face, singing and lewdly rolling his pelvis.

> **If you want my body and you think I'm sexy**   
>  **Come on, sugar, tell me so**

Can this day get worse? I stick a finger down my throat, pretend to vomit, and he swings his attention to Della.

Her eyes go wide, and she blushes, as he lifts her hand from the table and rubs it all over his chest. Ewww.

> **If you really need me, just reach out and touch me**   
>  **Come on, honey, tell me so**

I take advantage of the distraction to slip away and clock-out.

My shift is over, Dad’s waiting for me, and I probably just shot myself in the foot as far as Logan goes. Still, I’d rather brave it out with him, than head out to that parking lot alone.

“Sexy?” I approach him from behind. “Does he mean that ironically? Like when you call a dumb guy Einstein?”

Logan grins down at me. “Dick watched some eighties program on VH1, and is now convinced Rod Stewart is his Spirit Guide.”

“Guess that explains the pleather pants, and the gratuitous ass shaking.”

He’s back on stage now, thrusting his hips. Della watches from her chair, cradling the BroBot, and staring at him like he’s the new Logan Echolls.

“So, hey…Buddy.” I drop a hand on Logan’s shoulder and flutter my lashes at him. “Walk a girl out to her car?”

He visibly shudders. “A hot blonde flirting with me shouldn’t fill me with dread like that. Why don’t you tell me what you really want?”

“Um…the pleasure of your company?” I pretend to be offended.

Logan lifts a single brow.

I sigh. “Some guy was hitting on me earlier and didn’t want to take no for an answer. He was getting a little aggressive.”

“And you didn’t zap him with your taser?” Logan asks, but he’s already out of his seat and ushering me toward the exit.

“This guy really creeped me out, Logan. Something about his eyes.” Not exactly a lie.

“Well, you’ve spent enough time around psychos. I’ll trust your judgement.” Logan pushes open the door, motioning for me to proceed.

It closes behind us, shutting out all but the sound of our footsteps. One overhead light illuminates the dozen or so vehicles in the parking lot – the others having burned out long ago.

Why can’t I remember what Beaver drives?

I huddle closer to Logan – arm to arm – longing to take his hand, instead. “Thanks for not laughing at me. I’m probably just being paranoid, but…”

“I should be thanking you. You spared me from having to pretend I enjoyed Dick’s performance.” His lips turn down. “Not to mention, Lars put his name in for another turn. And I thought your boy, Duncan, was bad.”

“I don’t know who’s worse,” I say, “I think I’d have to give the edge to Duncan’s rendition of Swing Low Sweet Chariot. It was truly the stuff of nightmares.”

“Hey, just so you know, we didn’t purposely exclude him tonight.” Logan shoves his hands in his pockets. “He said he had to study.”

“Well, you know how he loves over-achieving” Did he honestly believe Duncan would want to be in the same building as me right now?

We pause next to the LeBaron. “Well…here we are.” Logan gives my trunk a double-knock, triggering a wailing from the inside.

We both jump, momentarily startled.

“You left your baby in the trunk?”

“Oops. I hope nobody calls child protective services on me.” I hold out my cell phone in invitation. “They might try taking her away or something.”

“I wouldn’t worry. This is Neptune. Just throw some cash at them, and you can lock your baby anywhere you’d like.” He lifts one shoulder and drops it. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I lower my eyes to the ground. “Um…before you go, can you check the back seat?”

“This guy must have been a real piece of work to spook the unspookable Veronica Mars.” Logan opens my car door, tilts the seat forward, and makes a show of checking all the nooks and crannies. “Nobody there. It’s all safe.”

I smile my thanks and switch places with him, but paranoia takes hold before I have a chance to climb inside.

Why would Beaver hide in my back seat when he could just plant a bomb under my car and wait around the corner?

“Hold on a sec.” I extract a mini flashlight from my purse, shining the beam over my tires, back bumper. Should I check under the hood? My car’s been out here for hours. Plenty of time to tamper with it.

I bite my lip, indecisive, glance over my right shoulder and then my left.

“Hey, are you okay to drive?” Logan asks, concerned by my behavior.

“Um…” I hesitate. “Maybe I should head back inside and call a taxi.”

“Veronica.” He toes at my foot. “You only have to ask. I’ll give you a ride.”

“But what about your boys inside? I wouldn’t want to deprive them of your company.”

“They’ll survive.”

“Okay.” I smile. “Well, then I would appreciate a ride home. Thank you.”

“Hey. I’m sorry, Veronica. For what my dad did to you last year.” Logan waits while I rescue Jessica Joan from the trunk and shove a bottle in her mouth. “I didn’t realize you still thought about it. But why wouldn’t you? It’s not the kind of thing you’d forget.”

“This isn’t that. I promise.” I don’t bother arguing about his culpability for his dad’s crimes. He’s never listened before. He won’t now.

Logan has the decency to check his own back seat. He opens the door, peers inside, then steps out of the way, watching over my shoulder while I conduct a more thorough inspection of the interior and cargo area with my flashlight.

I turn around to find him standing a little too close, one forearm braced on the roof. My heart thuds and I take a deep breath before looking up into his eyes.

“Hmm. Why does this seem so familiar?” He smirks and takes a step back.

If I wasn’t a paranoid wreck right now, I’d drag him inside the truck and remind him what familiar feels like.

“It makes a certain sense, considering how many blondes you’ve had back here.”

“Jealous?” Logan’s lip quirks up on one side, and he lifts a hand, like he wants to push my hair behind my ear. Drops it again. “That number is probably a lot smaller than you think it is.”

Only because his current bed buddy prefers luxury suites and Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Hey. About what I said in there…” I gesture to the coffee shop. “About you not being for the faint of heart…”

“No need to explain. I get it, Veronica. I’m a nightmare walking.”

“No, you’re not.” I’d go with an entirely different sort of dream. “You’d have to understand the context. I was asking her about another customer, and she accused me of being territorial over you.”

“Where would she get that idea?” He answers, straight-faced, but his eyes sparkle. “Think she’s been talking to Jackie Cook?”

I groan. “You ever plan on letting me live that down?”

“Nope.”

“Anyway…” I begin, pointedly. “It seemed like a nicer response than telling her she’s not even blip on your radar.”

“I don’t know, she’d probably be loads of fun at a beach party,” Logan muses.

“Well, black absorbs sunlight, so at least she’d never get cold.” I shove the baby bottle in my bag, and rearrange JJ against my shoulder, giving her a few solid whacks on the back. “You should know, though. What I said about you wasn’t meant to be an insult.”

“Imagine if you’d tried.”

“It wasn’t a lie, either. Between your poor decisions, your idiot friends, and the paparazzi, you’re not an easy guy to date. You’re not a smart choice for any woman who considers herself delicate. Or fragile.”

“Thanks for the advice. I never would have guessed.” Logan lets out an upwards-aimed, self-deprecating, exhale.

I settle JJ down on his back seat, then take Logan by the wrist. “But…for a woman who’s strong enough, and gutsy, who’s capable of going head-to-head with you, and balls-to-wall _for_ you – she’s going to see you for the prize that you are.” I smile up at him. “A genuine diamond in the rough.”

I hear Logan’s sharp intake of breath. Like it’s the last thing he expected to hear from me. He swallows. “Balls to the wall, huh?”

“Balls to the wall.” I enunciate each word.

Logan takes a step closer, drapes an arm over the top of the car door, and shifts his tone into that guileless little boy voice he uses on occasion. “Whoever she is, she’s going to have some pretty big shoes to fill. At least, if she wants to outdo tasering the leader of a motorcycle gang.”

That’s nothing. You should see the masterful way I planted evidence and blackmailed a plastic surgeon.

I have no response, and he doesn’t seem to require one, so we merely stare at each other.

We stare so long, I can feel my heartbeat picking up speed. The air prickling between us.

He was wearing this black and white jacket the day I broke up with Duncan. The same day he pulled a gun on the Fitzpatricks to save me.

Impulsively, I gather both sides in my fingers, running the pads of my thumbs over the smooth leather, imagining how it might feel gliding across the rest of my skin.

Logan watches my hands, so still, I can’t tell if he’s breathing. He must be wondering what I’m doing.

To be honest, so am I.

Months ago, I would have dragged him in for a kiss. You might say it was my signature move, and boy did he love it when I played rough.

I look at his lips now, a fluttering in my belly as I mentally weigh the pros and cons.

So many pros.

But I can’t.

I’ve done enough harm to his relationship with Duncan. If we cross that line again, there’s no coming back for them.

And let’s be honest, he needs his best friend more than he needs me. Duncan talks him down, stabilizes him. As for me? I get captured by undercover ATF agents and Irish thugs, forcing him to resort to violence.  
It’s not like Logan is lacking for romantic prospects. Who knows how far things have progressed between him and Hannah, but, as of Trina’s visit to the penthouse, he’s still sleeping with Kendall.

His expression lingers somewhere between expectation and wariness, and the space between us tingles like static electricity.

It’s too late to joke my way out of this, but maybe I can salvage my dignity.

“It’s chilly tonight.” I draw his jacket closed, inserting the pin into the zipper box, and dragging the pull halfway up.

“Can’t have me shivering, huh?” His lips quirk, but his eyes search mine, as if trying to puzzle me out.

Good luck with that. I can’t figure me out, either.

“I owe you a belated ‘thank you’.” I smooth out the top of his jacket, ostensibly making the zippers align. “I shudder to imagine what Liam Fitzpatrick had in store for me that day, if you hadn’t shown up to save me, and I’m sorry I was so rough on you in the car.”

“Don’t be.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Logan shifts, leaning his right hip against the vehicle. “I sulked for maybe an hour after you stormed off that day. Then, when I realized why you were so angry, it was honestly kind of gratifying.”

“Gratifying?” I snort, giving him a sad shake of my head. “What’s gratifying about being scolded by a crazy woman having an emotional meltdown?”

He lowers his eyes to the ground, exhales. When he lifts his head, his eyes are bright and a tiny smile tilts the corners of his mouth. “Realizing that one person on this godforsaken planet gives a shit whether I live or die.”

The timbre of his voice steals my breath, reminds me of that moment right before our second kiss, when he told me he was ready to move on.

So, it’s not surprising it takes me a moment for my brain to catch up.

_Wait a second…_

“Logan.” I smack him on the sternum. “Of course, I give a shit if you’re alive. How could you even think I wouldn’t?”

“Well, I mean, there was a while there. After you broke into my house, ripped me a new one for Kendall, and then blamed me for being shot at and gang-jumped. You just seemed a little…done.”

“Logan…I’m—”

“In hindsight, I may have been missing the larger pattern.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“You get so angry at me _because_ you give a shit.”

“And that’s a newsflash, genius?” I drop my forehead to his chest. Oh, Logan.

He’s warm and solid, smells of leather, soap and coffee.

And I love him.

He waits a few beats, then laces his fingers behind my back, pulling me close. Runs a hand over the top of my hair. “Thanks again, Veronica. For whatever you did to exonerate me, and for caring enough to do so.”

“Eh, you’d do the same for me.” I press my cheek to his jacket, listening for a heartbeat.

“I’d at least give it serious thought.”

Is he for real? I lift my head, but his body rumbles with restrained laughter. _Asshole._

“Guess you two are hot and heavy again, huh?” The voice comes from somewhere in the darkness, making my heart leap to my throat.

Logan releases me, and whirls around. “Dammit, Beav, you can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

“Sorry.”

FUCK! Why is he here?

“Nah. It’s nothing.” Logan releases a self-deprecating laugh. “Veronica just has me paranoid.”

“Paranoid?” Beaver’s cold, dead eyes flick to me. “About what?”

I curl my fingers around Logan’s forearm – tight enough to bruise – but, to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch.

His body and the car door stand between myself and Beaver. Still, a ripple of fear runs through me.

Not enough to make me keep my mouth shut, though. “The usual. Psychos in the back seat. Of course, there are other ways to murder innocent people in moving vehicles, so Logan has graciously volunteered to give me a ride home.”

I watch Beaver for a flicker of guilt. _Nothing._

Logan watches me.

He senses something’s up, but from the warmth in his eyes, he probably thinks this is a garden variety ‘Mars grudge of the month’ situation.

How does one silently communicate ‘Your harmless, tagalong friend of years is actually a psychopath who murdered ten of our classmates’?

Logan steers the conversation back to shallow waters, speaking out of the side of his mouth while grinning indulgently at me. “Veronica has bewitched another hapless patron with her beauty and effortless charm. Only this one might be dangerous.”

I drill Beaver with my eyes. “You know how I get with my Spidey senses.”

He sneers and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “I know they’re not infallible.”

“No. Not always. That’s why I like to back up my hunches with evidence. I’m pretty good at it.”

He angles his chin at our position and proximity to each other. “So, what do you think Duncan would say about this?”

_Who gives a shit? He doesn’t get an opinion._

Logan, apparently. His lowers guilty eyes, and I can see him preparing his denial. _We were just talking. Nothing happened._

I squeeze close, so that my right-side presses to his left, and distract him from speaking by grabbing a generous handful of his ass. Hopefully, he’ll get my message.

  
He always was a quick study. Other than a momentary widening of the eyes, he catches my pass, returning the favor by sliding a hand in the back pocket of my jeans.

I bite my lip, approximating an expression of shame. “How long were you standing there?”

I can’t articulate why, but my instincts tell me not to deny. That allowing Beaver to believe he caught us mid-makeout might be my best strategy for stalling.

“Long enough.” _There_. That look in his eyes. Not only is he bluffing, but he’s convinced he’s tricked me into an admission of guilt. Which can only mean he just now returned.

“And exactly what did you see?” I ask.

“Everything.”

I share a look with Logan. _You still in on this little gambit?_

He bobs his brows in acknowledgment, slings an arm around my neck, and squeezes. “So Beav, can you maybe keep this to yourself for a while? We’re waiting to tell Duncan until—”

Beaver cuts him off. “What makes you think I haven’t told him already? Maybe I texted him a photo”

Logan blinks, taken aback. Finally beginning to comprehend that this is more than a momentary feud.

Now I give him a reassuring squeeze. “He hasn’t said a word to Duncan, and he won’t.”

“You sure about that, Veronica?”

“Ninety percent sure, yeah. You have no loyalty to Duncan, and he’s ambivalent at best to your existence.” _Or anyone else not currently in a coma or sharing a penthouse suite_. “Logan, on the other hand is your ticket to everything 09er. Anything you’re included in, you do so at his whim. And it can be just as easily be revoked.”  
  
Pure malice permeates Beavers gaze.

I shiver. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, let me remind you of Logan’s fake birthday party last year. Force him to choose, and you’re not going to like the results very much.”

Logan doesn’t say a word, but his jaw flexes angrily inside his cheek.

_That was too far. Way too far._

He could blow me out of the water, right now. Remind me how his romantic declaration was before I accused him of murder, refused to help clear his name, and then dumped him at the lowest point of his life.

When will I ever learn to hold back?

“Why so aggressive, Veronica?” Beaver takes a threatening step forward. His hands are still in his jacket pockets, the right one bulging significantly more than the left.

OH FUCK! Does he have a gun!

I slide my arm back around Logan, waist level, leaning into him like I want to cuddle. My hand slips up under his jacket, his shirt, and I frantically sketch letters on his spine with my index finger.

**S-O-S    S-O-S    S-O-S**

“No aggression.” I speak cautiously. “Guess I’m just a little frustrated at having my alone time with Logan interrupted.”

**G-U-N-?**

Logan glances down at me, eyes soft, while he traces a **’10 – 4’** on the back of my neck with his thumb.

“Well Beav, it’s been fun, but I promised Veronica’s dad I’d get her home within the hour. He worries about her.”

“Wait!” Beaver takes another step closer, his pocket jutting more. “Can we talk for a few minutes? I could use a ride home.”

Logan moves forward, carefully easing me behind his body. “Go back inside, and we’ll talk about it once I get back.”

“Yeah, it really can’t wait,” Beaver answers, crowding us back against the vehicle. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Logan’s body pulls taut, and his focus zones in. “What are you hiding there, Beav?”

“Want me to show you?” Beaver’s hand shifts, drawing out of his pocket.

Asphalt crunches, and light falls on Logan’s face – red, blue, red, blue.

Two sheriff’s cruisers swing into the lot, blocking half a dozen cars with their sloppy parking jobs.

Beaver retreats three steps, hands now visible and empty. I could probably get away with kicking him in the balls now that he can’t shoot me, but Logan’s in my way.

I settle for flipping him off.

He’s not amused.

Deputy Carson exits his vehicle first. He’s tall and blond, like a Nordic giant, and strolls our way with his thumbs tucked into his pockets. “Cassidy Casablancas?”

“That’s me.” Like magic, Beaver’s face transforms into the harmless, beleaguered kid we’re accustomed to seeing. “How can I help you, officer?”

Carson gives him a disbelieving once-over, surprised such a little guy is responsible for so much mayhem. “Sheriff Lamb sent us to escort you to the station.”

Logan steps aside for me and closes the car door once I’m out of the way. He leans close, whispering. “Were you planning on filling me in?” I raise an eyebrow, and he snorts. “Why did I even ask?”

“Am I under arrest?” Beaver asks Carson.

“Not if you come willingly. Sheriff just has a few questions he wants to ask you. Shouldn’t take long.”

The static sounds of a police scanner carry through the open window on the second cruiser. Deputy Sacks finishes reporting in, signs-off, and gets out of the car.

I meet him halfway, Logan following behind.

“You okay, Veronica?” Sacks looks me over.

“Am now. Glad you’re here, Deputy.”

He shoots a scathing glare at Beaver, which feels out-of-character for the usually placid deputy.  
Then again, he was there at the crash site. Knows how many kids died that day.

“Any clue to what Lamb wants to ask me about?” Beaver holds up his cell, wiggles it side to side. “Should I call my lawyer?”

“I’ll let the sheriff answer that. I’m just here to retrieve you,” Carson says.

Addressing Sacks, I drop my voice to a low hiss. “Get that phone away from him, now! And check his left pocket. He may have a gun.”

Logan seems baffled, but Sacks immediately moves into action, plucking the phone from Beaver’s hands. “I’ll hold on to this for now. You can contact your lawyer from the station. Now please place your hands on the patrol car.”

I never get the opportunity to find out if he’s actually armed.

A small crowd has gathered outside the building. Standing alone, at the edge of the parking lot is a very confused, and rightfully furious Mac.

“Oh fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Logan slides a reassuring hand over my back.

“My only female friend wants to punch me right now, and I can’t say I blame her.”

Logan follows the direction of my eyes. “I’d say her intentions lay more along the line of murder. You need backup?”

“Tempting, but I’d better handle this one on my own.” I scan the other bystanders, but Logan’s friends are still inside. “You should probably go tell Dick about his brother. I’m fine to drive myself home now.”

“You sure? Cause it’s no problem.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Logan nods. “But I’ll be expecting a full explanation during our outing tomorrow.”

“It’s a deal.” I smile.

He smiles back, and then turns to leave.

“Logan.” I grab his shoulder, impulsively lifting up on my toes, and pressing a kiss to the center of his soft cheek. “Thank you. You really came through for me tonight.”

Logan pretends to swoon, presses his hand to the spot. “I’m never washing my face again. And no thanks are necessary. That’s what friends do.”

_Friends. Right._

I nod my agreement, Logan salutes, and heads back into The Hut.

Mac holds up a hand as I approach. “Don’t, Veronica.”

I stop in front of her, forming my features into something a bit more repentant. “I was an asshole in there, and I’m very very sorry.”

“But you had your reasons, right? You always have your reasons.” Mac sighs, waves a hand over to where Sacks is guiding Beaver into the back seat of his cruiser. “This was you?”

“Tangentially. I knew it was about to happen. Which is why I—”

“Managed me?”

“Wait. No. That’s not what—”

Mac cuts me off. “That’s exactly what you did. Whatever’s going on with Cassidy, you didn’t trust me to react in a Veronica-approved manner, so you took the choice out of my hands.”

“Mac, it’s so much more than that. I did it for your sake.”

“Is that what you told Wallace before he left?”

 _Ouch._ I recoil as if she’d physically slapped me.

A flicker of guilt passes over Mac’s face, but she squares her shoulders. “We’re still friends, Veronica. But I’m going to need some time to get past this.”

I swallow and nod. She walks away.

-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:- 

 

**Logan Echolls 11:03 PM**  
Sbetrg fbzrguvat?

The text arrived five minutes ago, while I was showering. I take a minute to pull on my flannel penguin pajamas before responding.

  

**Veronica Mars 11:18 PM**  
Qvq V? Erserfu zl zrzbel

Logan doesn’t answer right away. While I wait, I moisturize my face, squeeze the excess water from my hair with a towel, and comb a leave-in conditioner through the ends.

  
I’m just climbing in bed when my phone finally buzzes with an incoming message – no words.

I click to open the video attachment, then flinch at the cacophony of wails issuing from my cell’s speaker.

Onscreen, Logan gives the camera a withering glare. He turns the phone around to show a howling Jessica Joan, laying on the couch, her unwanted bottle propped on a red decorative cushion. Beside her, lays a second, equally distressed animatronic baby in the default blue pajamas. Duncan’s presumably.

I laugh and bite my tongue. _Poor Logan._

His hand enters the frame, transferring the bottle and the pillow from JJ to the other brat, and reducing the noise by half. He sets down the phone, providing a tantalizing upwards view of his torso, as he swings JJ up to his shoulder and gives her enough thumps on the back to make her cries change to coos.

He picks the phone back up, speaks to the camera. “If your boyfriend is there, tell him he owes me for an entire week of this shit. And I need you both to promise me now – no matter how much in love you think you are – that the two of you will never ever reproduce. Uncle Logan needs some goddamn sleep.” He blows a kiss to the camera and the screen goes dark.

_Yeah, that warning is about seven months too late, but nice try, Logan._

And why hasn't Duncan told him about the breakup?

  

**Veronica Mars 11:25 PM**  
Lbh naq Qhapna qba’g pbzzhavpngr irel jryy, qb lbh?

  

**Logan Echolls 11:27 PM**  
Jryy, V fhttrfgrq pbhcyr’f pbhafryvat, ohg ur whfg npphfrq zr bs orvat n anttvat svfujvsr.

  

**Veronica Mars: 11:30 PM**  
Tnfyvtugvat? Ubj hayvxr uvz.

  

**Veronica Mars: 11:30 PM**  
Pna lbh qebc gur onol bss ng Tvn’f ybpxre gbzbeebj zbeavat?

  

**Logan Echolls: 11:31 PM**  
V’yy nqqerff gur gebhoyr va cnenqvfr yngre. Ohg sbe abj, V znl unir zvfernq gung, ohg vg ybbxrq yvxr lbh jrer nfxvat zr gb jnyx nebhaq fpubby jvgu n snxr onol qerffrq yvxr n snvel cevaprff. Gung pbhyqa’g or evtug.

  

**Veronica Mars: 11:34 PM**  
Tbbq byq Tvn. V’ir orra gurer, naq vg’f uhzvyvngvat. Yhpxvyl, gurer’f n frpbaq bcgvba.

  

**Logan Echolls: 11:34 PM**  
V’z nyy rnef.

 

_You certainly are. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t detract from the pretty._

 

**Veronica Mars: 11:35 PM**  
Yrnir sbe fpubby orsber Qhapna jnxrf hc. Yvggyr WW vf whfg svar jrnevat oyhr wnzzvrf, qrfcvgr jung ure bgure zbz guvaxf.

 

**Logan Echolls: 11:36 PM**  
Erzvaq zr gb nyfb pvepyr onpx gb gung ubg ‘zbz-ba-zbz’ guvat. Ner lbh fhttrfgvat V yrnir Qhapna gb pneel nebhaq n ebobg onol va snvel cevaprff qent?

 

**Veronica Mars: 11:38 PM**  
Jub, zr? Jbhyq V qb n guvat yvxr gung?

 

**Logan Echolls: 11:38 PM**  
Hardhvibpnyyl. Nygubhtu, eneryl gb Cevapr Punezvat.

 

**Veronica Mars: 11:39 PM**  
Abg zl snhyg ur’f na vapbafvqrengr ebbzzngr. Trg fbzr fyrrc, Ybtna, orpnhfr lbh’er nyy zvar gbzbeebj, naq V pna’g unir lbh qbmvat bss.

 

**Logan Echolls: 11:40 PM**  
Vs gung’f gur pnfr, jul jnvg sbe gbzbeebj? V’yy fubgtha n Erq Ohyy naq or gurer va gjragl.

 

**Veronica Mars: 11:41 PM**  
Fybj lbhe ebyy, Crei. V zrnag sbe n fgnxrbhg.

 

**Logan Echolls: 11:42 PM**  
Lbh’er ab sha.

 

**Veronica Mars: 11:43 PM**  
Erq Ohyy? Fb zhpu sbe gung snzbhf raqhenapr.

  

**Logan Echolls: 11:45 PM**  
Univat zl fgnzvan dhrfgvbarq ol fbzrobql jubfr fbyr rknzcyr vf Qhapna? Gung’f evpu.

  

**Veronica Mars: 11:45 PM**  
Ner lbh fhttrfgvat V fyrrc nebhaq? Trg n srj zber abgpurf?

  

**Logan Echolls: 11:46 PM**  
Jbhyq V qb gung?

 

I fumble for a snarky response, but, to my great regret, he wouldn’t. He’s painfully loyal to Duncan. Whether he deserves it or not.

_But a girl can dream._

 

**Veronica Mars: 11:48 PM**  
Fjrrg qernzf, Ybtna. V’yy frr lbh gbzbeebj

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my crew. You know who you are.  
> Expect part two within next few weeks.  
> Images do not belong to me.  
> Found most while Googling Glass Ball Photography. Attempts to find sources lead me to Pinterest no-man's-land.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Cover) Decode by SilverLining2k6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160365) by [AlinaSorokina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlinaSorokina/pseuds/AlinaSorokina)




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